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<1* 



HE GAVE HIMSELF UP TO READING BOOKS OF CHIVALRY. 


DON QUIXOTE OF 
LA MANCHA 


BY 

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA 


TBANSLATED WITH INTEODXJCTION AND NOTES BY 

JOHN ORMSBY 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 



gift 

'^^BIER.HOLBROOK 

1963 


c 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


VOL. 1. 


INTRODUCTION: 

PkEFA-TORY . . , 

Cervantes . . , 

“Don Quixote” . , 

THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE 
COMMENDATORY VERSES 


V 

XV 

1 

iXXV 

Ixxxii 


CHAPTER 

I. Which treats of the character and pursuits of the 

FAMOUS gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha . 1 

II. Which treats of the first sally the ingenious Don 

Quixote made from home 7 

III. Wherein is related the droll way in which Don 

Quixote had himself dubbed a knight ... 13 

IV. Of what happened to our knight when he left the 

INN 19 

Y. In which the narrative of our knight’s mishap is 

CONTINUED 26 

VI. Of the diverting and important scrutiny which the 
Curate and the Barber made in the library of 
OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN ...... 30 

VII. Of the SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DoN 

Quixote of La Mancha ...... 40 

VIII. Of THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON 
Quixote had in the terrible and undreamt-of 

ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCUR- 
RENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED ... 46 

IX, In which IS concluded and finished the terrific 

BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BiSCAYAN AND THE 

VALIANT Manchegan • . 54 


CONTENTS, 


11 


CHAPTER 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

( 11 . 

IV. 

XV. 

XVI. 
XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 


XX. 


XXI. 

XXII. 

V 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 


Of the pleasant discourse that passed between 
Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza . 

Of what befell Don Quixote with certain goat- 

}1.K]RX)S ••••••••** 

Of what a goatherd related to those with Don 
Quixote ......... 

In which is ended the story of the shepherdess 
Marcela, with other incidents .... 

Wherein are inserted the despairing verses of the 

DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS 
NOT LOOKED FOR ........ 

In which is related the unfortunate adventure 
THAT Don Quixote fell in with when he fell 
OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YaNGUESANS 
Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in 
THE inn which HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE . 

In which are contained the innumerable troubles 
WHICH THE BRAVE DON QuiXOTE AND HIS GOOD 
SQUIRE Sancho Panza endured in the inn, which 
TO his misfortune he took to be a castle . 

In which is related the discourse Sancho Panza 

HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QuiXOTE, TOGETHER 
WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING 

Of the shrewd discourse which Sancho held with 

HIS MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL 
HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER 
NOTABLE OCCURRENCES ...... 

Of the unexampled and unheard-of adventure 
WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QuiXOTE 
OF La Mancha with less peril than any ever 

ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD 

Which treats of the exalted adventure and rich 

PRIZE OF MaMBRINO’S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER 
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT . 
Of the FREEDOM DON QuiXOTE CONFERRED ON SEV- 
ERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR W'ILL WERE 
BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO 

Of what befell Don Quixote in the Sierra 
Morena, which was one of the rarest advent- 
ures RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY 

In which is continued the adventure of the Siedra 
Morena 


PAOS 

59 

64 

71 

77 

86 

94 

102 

109 

117 

127 

134 

147 

158 

168 

180 


CHAPTEB 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 


, CONTENTS. iii 

PAGB 

Which treats of the strange things that hap - 
pened TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF La MaNCHA IN 
THE Sierra Morena, and of his imitation of the 

PENANCE OF BeLTENEBROS 188 

In which are continued the refinements where- 
with Don Quixote played the part of a lover 

IN THE Sierra Morena 203 

Of how the Curate and the Barber proceeded 
WITH their scheme ; together with other mat- 
ters WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY, 211 
Which treats of the strange and delightful 

ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE 

Barber in the same Sierra .... 225 

Which treats of the droll device and method 

ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT 
FROM THE severe PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON 


HIMSELF . . . . . . . . . 236 

Which treats of the address displayed by the 
FAIR Dorothea, with other matters pleasant 
AND AMUSING ........ 247 

Of the delectable discussion between Don Qui- 
xote AND SaNCHO PaNZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER 
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS ...... 257 

Which treats of what befell all Don Quixote’s 

PARTY at the inn . . . . . . . 266 

In which is related the novel of “The Ill- 

advised Curiosity ” 273 

In which is continued the novel of “ The Ill- 

advised Curiosity” 287 


Which treats of the heroic and prodigious bat- 
tle Don Quixote had with certain skins of 
red wine, and brings the novel of “The Ill- 
advised Curiosity ” to a close . . . 300 

Which treats of more curious incidents that 

OCCURRED at THE INN ...... 307 

In WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS 

Princess Micomicona, with other droll advent- 
ures ......... 316 

Which treats of the curious discourse Don 

Quixote delivered on arms and letters . . 326 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 

LII. 


PAUK 

Wherein the captive relates his life and ad- 
ventures ........ 330 

In which the story of the captive is continued, 336 

In which the captive still continues his advent- 
ures ......... 345 

Which treats of what further took place in 

THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH 
KNOWING ........ 359 

Wherein is related the pleasant story of the 

MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS 
THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN .... 366 

In WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENT- 
URES OF THE INN . . . . . . .376 

In which the doubtful question of Mambrino’s 

HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, 

WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH 
AND EARNEST ........ 384 

Of the end of the notable adventure of the 

OFFICERS OF THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD ; AND OF THE 
GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON 

Quixote . .391 

Of the STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QuiXOTE OF 
La Mancha was carried away enchanted, to- 
gether WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS . 399 

In which the Canon pursues the subject of the 

BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY 

OF HIS WIT . 408 

Which treats of the shrewd conversation 

WHICH SaNCHO PaNZA held with his MASTER, 

Don Quixote .416 

Of the shrewd controversy which Don Qui- 
xote AND THE Canon held, together with 
OTHER incidents ....... 423 

Which deals with what the goatherd told 
those who were carrying off Don Quixote . 429 

Of the quarrel that Don Quixote had with the 

GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE 
OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE 
OF SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION 433 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawn in color hy Bagnot de La Bere 


VOLUME I 

He gave himself up to reading books of chivalry (P. 3) 

Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Meanwhile one of the carriers thought fit to water his team 16 

It shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and 

rider 47 

He €aw him rising and falling in the air with grace and 

nimbleness 116 

‘‘I found her winnowing two bushels of wheat in the yard” 257 
VOLUME II 

‘‘What have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?” 30 

Don Quixote wheeled Rocinante round, in order to take a 
proper distance 93 

The keeper flung open the door of the first cage 114 

As they were proceeding they discovered a small boat 202 

Don Quixote dressed himself and threw the scarlet mantle 

over his shoulders 216 

“Say on, brother,” said Sancho 323 

The landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it was 408 





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INTRODUCTION. 


PEEPATORY. 

It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in 
favor of the present undertaking what had long been a 
favorite project, that of a new edition of Shelton’s “ Don Qui- 
xote,” which has now become a somewhat scarce book. There 
are some — and I confess myself to be one — for whom Shel- 
ton’s racy old version, with all its defects, has a charm that 
no modern translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. 
Shelton had the inestimable advantage of belonging to the 
same generation as Cervantes ; Don Quixote ” had to him a 
vitality that only a contemporary could feel ; it cost him no 
dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes saw them ; there is 
no anachronism in his language ; he put the Spanish of Cer- 
vantes into the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself 
most likely knew the book ; he may have carried it home with 
him in his saddle-bags to Stratford on one of his last journeys, 
and under the mulberry tree at New Place joined hands with 
a kindred genius in its pages. 

But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even 
a moderate popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old 
crusted English would, no doubt, be relished by a minority, 
but it would be only by a minority. His version has strong 
claims on sentimental grounds, but on sentimental grounds 
only. His warmest admirers must admit that he 'is not a sat- 
isfactory representative of Cervantes. His translation of the 
First Part was very hastily made — in forty days he says in 
his dedication — and, as his marginal notes show, never re- 
vised by him. It has all the freshness and vigor, but also a 
full measure of the faults, of a hasty production. It is often 
very literal — barbarously literal frequently — but just as 

(V) 


vi 


INTRODUCTION, 


often very loose. He had evidently a good colloquial knowl- 
edge of Spanish, but apparently not much more. It never 
seems to occur to him that the same translation of a word will 
not suit in every case. With him discrete — a chameleon 
of a word in its way of taking various meanings according to 
circumstances — is always discreet,” admirar ” is always 
“admire,” “sucesos” always “successes” (which it seldom 
means), “ honesto ” always “ honest ” (which it never means), 
“ suspense ” always “ suspended ; ” “ desmayarse,” to swoon or 
faint, is always “ to dismay ” (one lady is a “ mutable and dis- 
mayed traitress,” when “ fickle and fainting ” is meant, and 
another “ made shew of dismaying ” when she “ seemed ready 
to faint ”) ; “ trance,” a crisis or emergency, is always simply 
“ trance ; ” “ disparates ” always “ fopperies,” which, however, 
if not a translation, is an illustration of the meaning, for it is 
indeed nonsense. These are merely a few samples taken at 
hap-hazard, but they will suffice to show how Shelton trans- 
lated, and why his “ Don Quixote,” veritable treasure as it is 
to the Cervantist and to the lover of old books and old English, 
cannot be accepted as an adequate translation. 

It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of 
“ Don Quixote.” To those who are familiar with the original, 
it savors of truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there 
can be no thoroughly satisfactory translation of “ Don Quixote ” 
into English or any other language. It is not that the Spanish 
idioms are so utterly unmanageable, or that the untranslatable 
words, numerous enough no doubt, are so superabundant, but 
rather that the sententious terseness to which the humor of 
the book owes its flavor is peculiar to Spanish, and can at best 
be only distantly imitated in any other tongue. The dilemma 
of the translator frequently is this, that terseness is essential 
to the humor of the phrase or passage, but if he translates he 
will not be terse, and if he would be terse he must paraphrase. 

The history of our English translations of “ Don Quixote ” 
is instructive. Shelton’s, the first in any language, was made, 
apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of 
course was only the First Part. It has been asserted that 
the Second, published in 1620, is not the work of Shelton, 
but there is nothing to support the assertion save the fact that 
it has less spirit, less of what we generally understand by “ go,” 
about it than the first, which would be only natural if the 
first were the work of a young man writing currmte calamo^ 


PREFATORY. 


Vll 


and the second that of a middle-aged man writing for a book- 
seller. On the other hand, it is closer and more literal, the 
style is the same, the very same translations, or mistransla- 
tions, of snceso,^^ trance,’’ desmayarse,” etc., occur in it, 
and it is extremely unlikely that a new translator would, by 
suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to carry off the 
credit. 

In 1687 John Phillips, Milton’s nephew, produced a Don 
Quixote ” made English,” he says, according to the humour 
of our modern language.” The origin of this attempt is plain 
enough. In 1656* that indecorous Oxford Don, Edmond Gay- 
ton, had produced his Festivous Notes on Don Quixote,” a 
string of jests, more or less dirty, on the incidents in the story, 
which seems to have been much relished; and in 1667 Sir 
Koger I’Estrange had published his version of Quevedo’s 
‘‘Visions” from the French of La Geneste, a book which the 
lively though decidedly coarse humor, cockney jokes and Lon- 
don slang, wherewith he liberally seasoned it, made a pro- 
digious favorite with the Eestoration public. It struck Phillips 
that, as Shelton was now rather antiquated, a “ Don Quixote ” 
treated in the same way might prove equally successful. He 
imitated L’Estrange as well as he could, but L’Estrange was a 
clever penman and a humorist after his fashion, while Phillips 
was only a dull buffoon. His “Quixote” is not so much a 
translation as a travesty, and a travesty that for coarseness, 
vulgarity, and buffoonery is almost unexampled even in the 
literature of that day. 

Ned Ward’s “ Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, 
merrily translated into Hudibrastic Verse ” (1700), can scarcely 
be reckoned a translation, but it serves to show the light in 
which “ Don Quixote ” was regarded at the time. 

A further illustration may be found in the version published 
in 1712 by Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined 
tea-dealing with literature. It is described as “ translated from 
the original by several hands,” but if so all Spanish flavor has 
entirely evaporated under the manipulation of the several 
hands. The flavor that it has, on the other hand, is dis- 
tinctly Franco-cockney. Any one who compares it carefully 
with the original will have little doubt that it is a concoction 
from Shelton and the French of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked 
out by borrowings from Phillips, whose mode of treatment it 
adopts. It is, to be sure, more decent and decorous, but it 


viii 


INTRODUCTION, 


treats Don Quixote in the same fashion as a comic book 
that cannot be made too comic. 

To attempt to improve the humor of “ Don Quixote ’’ by an 
infusion of cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux’s 
operators did, is not merely an impertinence like larding a 
sirloin of prize beef, but an absolute falsification of the spirit 
of the book, and it is a proof of the uncritical way in which 
Don Quixote is generally read that this worse than worth- 
less translation — worthless as failing to represent, worse than 
worthless as misrepresenting — should have been favored as 
it has been. That it should have been popular in its own day, 
or that a critic who understood the original so little as Alex- 
ander Fraser Tytler should think it by far the best,’’ is no 
great wonder. But that so admirable a scholar as Ticknor 
should have given it even the lukewarm approval he bestows 
upon it, and that it should have been selected for reproduction 
in luxurious shapes three or four times within these last three 
or four years, is somewhat surprising. Ford, whose keen sense 
of humor, and intimate knowledge of Spain and the Spanish 
character, make him a more trustworthy critic on this par- 
ticular question than even the illustrious American, calls it of 
all English translations “ the very worst.” This is of course 
too strong, for it is not and could not be worse than Phillips’s, 
but the vast majority of those who can relish Don Quixote ” 
in the original will confirm the judgment substantially. 

It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation 
undertaken and executed in a very different spirit, that of 
Charles Jervas, the portrait plainter, and friend of Pope, Swift, 
Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas has been allowed little credit 
for his work, indeed it may be said none, for it is known to the 
world in general as Jarvis’s. It was not published until after 
his death, and the printers gave the name according to the 
current pronunciation of the day. It has been the most freely 
used and the most freely abused of all the translations. It 
has seen far more editions than any other, it is admitted on 
all hands to be by far the most faithful, and yet nobody seems 
to have a good word to say for it or for its author. Jervas no 
doubt prejudiced readers against himself in his preface, where 
among many true words about Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, 
he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton with having translated 
not from the Spanish, but from the Italian version of Fran- 
ciosini, which did not appear until ten years after Shelton’s 


PREFATORY. 


IX 


first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems to 
have attached to him because he was by profession a painter 
and a mediocre one (though he has given us the best portrait 
we have of Swift), and this may have been strengthened by 
Pope’s remark that he translated ^ Don Quixote ’ without 
understanding Spanish.” He has been also charged with 
borrowing from Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that 
in a few difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, 
and gone astray with him ; but for one case of this sort, there 
are fifty where he is right and Shelton wrong. As for Pope’s 
dictum, any one who examines Jervas’s version carefully, side 
by side with the original, will see that he was a sound Spanish 
scholar, incomparably a better one than Shelton, except perhaps 
in mere colloquial Spanish. Unlike Shelton, and indeed most 
translators, who are generally satisfied with the first dictionary 
meaning or have a stereotyped translation for every word 
under all circumstances, he was alive to delicate distinctions 
of meaning, always an important matter in Spanish, but es- 
pecially in the Spanish of Cervantes, and his notes show that 
he was a diligent student of the great Spanish Academy Dic- 
tionary, at least its earlier volumes; for he died in 1739, the 
year in which the last was printed. His notes show, besides, 
that he was a man of very considerable reading, particularly 
in the department of chivalry romance, and they in many 
instances anticipate Bowie, who generally has the credit of be- 
ing the first “ Quixote ” annotator and commentator. He was, 
in fact, an honest, faithful, and painstaking translator, and he 
has left a version which, whatever its shortcomings may be, 
is singularly free from errors and mistranslations. 

The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry — wooden ” in 
a word, — and no one can deny that there is foundation for it. 
But it may be pleaded for Jervas that a good deal of this 
rigidity is due to his abhorrence of the light, flippant, jocose 
style of his predecessor. He was one of the few, very few, 
translators that have shown any apprehension of the unsmiling 
gravity which is the essence of Quixotic humor ; it seemed to 
him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking and grinning 
at his own good things, and to this may be attributed in a great 
measure the ascetic abstinence from every thing savoring of 
liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. Could 
he have caught but ever so little of Swift’s or Arbuthnot’s 
style, he might have hit upon a via media that would have 


X 


INTRODUCTION, 


made his version as readable as it is faithful, or at any rate 
saved him from the reproach of having marred some of the 
best scenes in Don Quixote.” In most modern editions, it 
should be observed, his style has been smoothed and smartened, 
but without any reference to the original Spanish, so that if he 
has been made to read more agreeably he has also been robbed 
of his chief merit of fidelity. 

Smollett’s version, published in 1755, may be almost counted 
as one of these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction 
Jervas’s translation was very freely drawn upon, and very little 
or probably no heed given to the original Spanish. 

The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. 
George Kelly’s, which appeared in 17 69, printed for the 
Translator,” was an impudent imposture, being nothing more 
than Motteux’s version with a few of the words, here and 
there, artfully transposed; Charles Wilmot’s (1774), was only 
an abridgment like Florian’s, but not so skilfully executed; 
and the version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accom- 
pany her brother’s plates, was merely a patchwork production 
made out of former translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. 
Dufheld’s, it would be in every sense of the word impertinent 
in me to offer an opinion here. I had not even seen it when 
the present undertaking was proposed to me, and since then I 
may say vidi tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the 
temptation which Mr. Duffield’s reputation and comely volumes 
hold out to every lover of Cervantes. 

From the foregoing history of our translations of “Don 
Quixote,” it will be seen that there are a good many people, 
who, provided they get the mere narrative with its full com- 
plement of facts, incidents, and adventures served up to them 
in a form that amuses them, care very little whether that form 
is the one in which Cervantes originally shaped his ideas. On 
the other hand, it is clear that there are many who desire to 
have not merely the story he tells, but the story as he tells it, 
so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances permit, 
and who will give a preference to the conscientious translator, 
even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat awk- 
wardly. It is not very likely that readers of the first class are 
less numerous now than they used to be, but it is no extrava- 
gant optimism to assume that there are many more of the other 
way of thinking than there were a century and a half ago. 

But after all there is no real antagonism between the two 


PREFATORY. 


XI 


classes ; there is no reason why what pleases the one should 
not please the other, or why a translator who makes it his aim 
to treat “ Don Quixote ” with the respect due to a great classic, 
should not be as acceptable even to the careless reader as the 
one who treats it as a famous old jest-book. It is not a ques- 
tion of caviare to the general, or, if it is, the fault rests with 
him who makes it so. The method by which Cervantes won 
the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis^ to be 
equally effective with the great majority of English readers. 
At any rate, even if there are readers to whom it is a matter 
of indifference, fidelity to the method is as much a part of the 
translator’s duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can please all 
parties, so much the better ; but his first duty is to those who 
look to him for as faithful a representation of his author as it 
is in his power to give them, faithful to the letter so long as 
fidelity is practicable, faithful to the spirit so far as he can 
make it. 

With regard to fidelity to the letter, there is of course no 
hard and fast rule to be observed ; a translator is bound to be 
literal as long as he can, but persistence in absolute literality, 
when it fails to convey the author’s idea in the shape the 
author intended, is as great an offence against fidelity as 
the loosest paraphrase. As to fidelity to the spirit, perhaps 
the only rule is for the translator to sink his own individu- 
ality altogether, and content himself with reflecting his 
author truthfully. It is disregard of this rule that makes 
French translations, admirable as they generally are in all 
that belongs to literary workmanship, so often unsatisfactory. 
French translators, for the most part, seem to consider them- 
selves charged with the duty of introducing their author to 
polite society, and to feel themselves in a measure responsible 
for his behavior. There is always in their versions a certain 
air of Bear your body more seeming, Audrey.” Viardot, for 
example, has produced a Don Quixote ” that is delightfully 
smooth, easy reading ; but the Castilian character has been 
smoothed away. He has forced Cervantes into a French 
mould, instead of moulding his French to the features of 
Cervantes. It is hardly fair, perhaps, to expect a Frenchman 
to efface himself and consent to play second fiddle under any 
circumstances ; but to look for a translation true to the spirit 
from a translator who holds himself free to improve his author 
is, as a Spaniard would say, to ask pears from the elm tree,” 


XU 


INTRODUCTION. 


My purpose here, however, is not to dogmatize on the rules 
of translation, but to indicate those I have followed, or at 
least tried to the best of my ability to follow, in the present 
instance. One which, it seems to me, cannot be too rigidly 
followed in translating Don Quixote,’’ is to avoid everything 
that savors of affectation. The book itself is, indeed, in one 
sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more than 
Cervantes. Toda afectacion es mala,” is one of his favorite 
proverbs. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use 
antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is 
after all an affectation, and one for which there is no warrant 
or excuse. Spanish has probably undergone less change since 
the seventeenth century than any language in Europe, and by 
far the greater and certainly the best part of Don Quixote ” 
differs but little in language from the colloquial Spanish of 
the present day. That wonderful supper-table conversation 
on books of chivalry in Chap, xxxii. Part I. is just such a one 
as might be heard now in any venta in Spain. Except in the 
tales and Don Quixote’s speeches, the translator who uses the 
simplest and plainest every-day language will almost always 
be the one who approaches nearest to the original. 

Seeing that the story of Don Quixote ” and all its char- 
acters and incidents have now been for more than two centu- 
ries and a half familiar as household words in English mouths, 
it seems to me that the old familiar names and phrases should 
not be changed without good reason. I am by no means sure 
that I have done rightly in dropping Shelton’s barbarous title 
of Curious Impertinent ” by which the novel in the First 
Part has been so long known. It is not a translation, and it is 
not English, but it has so long passed current as the title of 
the story that its original absurdity has been, so to speak, 
effaced by time and use. Ingenious ” is, no doubt, not an 
exact translation of Ingenioso ; ” but even if an exact one 
could be found, I doubt if any end would be served by sub- 
stituting it. No one is likely to attach the idea of ingenuity 
to Don Quixote.^ Dapple ” is not the correct translation of 

* " Ingenio ” was used in Cervantes’ time in very nearly the same way 
as ** wit ” with us at about the same period, for the imaginative or inven- 
tive faculty. Collections of plays were always described as being by 
" los mejores ingenios ” — " the best wits.” By " Ingenioso ” he means 
one in whom the imagination is the dominant faculty, overruling reason. 
The opposite is the discrete,” he in whom the discerning faculty has 
the upper hand — he whose reason keeps the imagination under due 


PREFATORY. 


Xlll 


rucio/’ as I have pointed out in a note, but it has so long 
done duty as the distinctive title of Sancho’s ass that nobody, 
probably, connects the idea of color with it. Curate ’’ is not 
an accurate translation of cura,’’ but no one is likely to con- 
found Don Quixote’s good fussy neighbor with the curate who 
figures in modern fiction. For Knight of the Eueful -Coun- 
tenance,” no defence is necessary, for, as I have shown (y. 
Chap, xix.), it is quite right ; Sancho uses triste figura ” as 
synonymous with mala car a.” 

The names of things peculiarly Spanish, like “ olla,” bota,” 

alforjas,” etc., are, I think, better left in their original 
Spanish. Translations like “ bottle ” and saddle-bags ” give 
an incorrect idea, and books of travel in Spain have made the 
words sufficiently familiar to most readers. It is less easy to 
deal with the class of words that are untranslatable, or at 
least translatable only by two or more words ; such words as 

desengano,” discreto,” donaire,” and the like, which in 
cases where conciseness is of at least equal importance with 
literality must often be left only partially translated. 

Of course a translator who holds that Don Quixote ” should 
receive the treatment a great classic deserves, will feel him- 
self bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in chapter 
ix. not to omit or add anything. Every one who takes up a 
sixteenth or seventeenth century author knows very well before- 
hand that he need not expect to find strict observance of the 
canons of nineteenth century society. Two or three hundred 
years ago, words, phrases, and allusions where current in 
ordinary conversation which would be as inadmissible now as 
the costume of our first parents, and an author who reflects the 
life and manners of his time must necessarily reflect its lan- 
guage also. 

This is the case of Cervantes. There is no more apology 
needed on his behalf than on behalf of the age in which he 
lived. He was not one of those authors for whom dirt has 
the attraction it has for the blue bottle ; he was not even one 
of those that with a jolly indifference treat it as capital 
matter to make a joke of. Compared with his contempo- 
raries and most of his successors who dealt with life and 
manners, he is purity itself; there are words, phrases, and 
allusions that one could wish away, there are things — though 

control. The distinction is admirably worked out in chapters xvi., xvii., 
and xviii. of Part II. 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION, 


very few after all — that offend one, but there is no impurity 
to give offence in the writings of Cervantes. 

The text I have followed generally is Hartzenbusch’s. But 
Hartzenbusch, though the most scholarly of the editors and 
commentators of Don Quixote,- is not always an absolutely 
safe guide. His text is preferable to that of the Academy 
in being, as far as the First Part is concerned, based upon 
the first of La Cuesta’s three editions, instead of the third, 
which the Academy took as its basis on the supposition (an 
erroneous one, as I have shown elsewhere) that it had been 
corrected by Cervantes himself. His emendations are fre- 
quently admirable, and remove difficulties and make rough 
places smooth in a manner that must commend itself to every 
intelligent reader ; but his love and veneration for Cervantes 
too often get the better of the judicious conservatism that 
should be an editor’s guiding principle in dealing with the 
text of an old author. Notwithstanding the abundant evi- 
dence before him that Cervantes was — to use no stronger 
word — a careless writer, he insists upon attributing every 
blunder, inconsistency, or slipshod or awkward phrase to the 
printers. Cervantes, he argues, wrote a hasty and somewhat 
illegible hand, his failing eyesight made revision or correction 
of his manuscript an irksome task to him, and the printers 
were consequently often driven to conjecture. He considers 
himself, therefore, at liberty to reject whatever jars upon his 
sense of propriety, and substitute what, in his judgment, Cer- 
vantes “ must have written.” 

It is needless to point out the destructive results that would 
follow the adoption of this principle in settling the text of old 
authors. In Hartzenbusch’s Don Quixote ” it has led to a 
good deal of unnecessary tampering with the text, and, in not 
a few instances, to something that is the reverse of emenda- 
tion. He is not, therefore, by any means an editor to be 
slavishly followed, though all who know his editions will cor- 
dially acknowledge his services, among which may be reck- 
oned his judicious arrangement of the text into paragraphs, 
and the care he has bestowed upon the punctuation, matters 
too much neglected by his predecessors. Nor is the valuable 
body of notes he has brought together the least of them. In 
this respect he comes next to Clemencin; but the industry 
and erudition of that indefatigable commentator have left com- 
paratively few gleanings for those who come after him. 


CERVANTES. 


XV 


To both, as well as to Pellicer, I have had frequent recourse, 
as my own notes will show. 

The tales introduced by Cervantes in the First Part have 
been printed in a smaller type ; they are, as he himself freely 
admits, intrusive matter, and if they cannot be removed, they 
should at least be distinguished as wholly subordinate. 

It is needless to say that the account given in the appendix 
of the editions and translations of Don Quixote ” does not 
pretend to be a full bibliography, which, indeed, would require 
a volume to itself. It is, however, though necessarily an im- 
perfect sketch, fuller and more accurate, I think, than any 
that has appeared, and it will, at any rate, serve to show, 
better than could be shown by any other means, how the book 
made its way in the world, and at the same time indicate the 
relative importance of the various editions. 

The account of the chivalry romances will give the reader 
some idea of the extent and character of the literature that 
supplied Cervantes with the motive for Don Quixote.” 

Proverbs form a part of the national literature of Spain, and 
the proverbs of Don Quixote ” have always been regarded as 
a characteristic feature of the book. They are, moreover, 
independently of their wit, humor, and sagacity, choice speci- 
mens of pure old Castilian. The reader will probably, there- 
fore, be glad to have them in their original form, arranged 
alphabetically according to what is of course the only rational 
arrangement for proverbs, that of key-words, and numbered for 
convenience of reference in the notes. 


CERVANTES. 

Four generations had laughed over Don Quixote ” before 
it occurred to any one to ask, who and what manner of man 
was this Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the 
titlepage ; and it was too late for a satisfactory answer to the 
question when it was proposed to add a life of the author to 
the London edition published at Lord Carteret’s instance in 
1738. All traces of the personality of Cervantes had by that 
time disappeared. Any floating traditions that may once have 
existed, transmitted from men who had known him, had long 
since died out, and of other record there was none ; for the 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were incurious as to the 
men of the time,” a reproach against which the nineteenth 
has, at any rate, secured itself, if it has produced no Shake- 
speare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y Siscar, to whom the 
task was intrusted, or any of those who followed him, Kios, 
Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was to eke out the few allu- 
sions Cervantes makes to himself in his various prefaces with 
such pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon his life as 
they could find. 

This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer 
to such good purpose that, while he has superseded all prede- 
cessors, he has left it somewhat more than doubtful whether 
any successor will ever supersede him. Thoroughness is the 
chief characteristic of Navarrete’s work. Besides sifting, test- 
ing, and methodizing with rare patience and judgment what 
had been previously brought to light, he left, as the saying is, 
no stone unturned under which anything to illustrate his sub- 
ject might possibly be found, and all the research of the sixty- 
five years that have elapsed since the publication of his “ Life 
of Cervantes ” has been able to add but little or nothing of 
importance to the mass of facts he collected and put in order. 
Navarrete has done all that industry and acumen could do, and 
it is no fault of his if he has not given us what we want. 
What Hallam says of Shakespeare may be applied to the 
almost parallel case of Cervantes : “ It is not the register of 
his baptism, or the draft of his will, or the orthography of his 
name that we seek ; no letter of his writing, no record of his 
conversation, no character of him drawn with any fulness by 
a contemporary has been produced.” By the irony of fate all 
or almost all we know of the greatest poet the world has ever 
seen is contained in documents the most prosaic the art of man 
can produce, and he who of all the men that ever lived soared 
highest above this earth is seen to us only as a long-headed 
man of business, as shrewd and methodical in money matters 
as the veriest Philistine among us. Of Cervantes we certainly 
know more than we do of Shakespeare, but of what we know 
the greater part is derived from sources of the same sort, from 
formal documents of one kind or another. Here, however, 
the resemblance ends. In Shakespeare’s case the document- 
ary evidence points always to prosperity and success ; in the 
case of Cervantes it tells of difficulties, embarrassments, or 
struggles. 


CERVANTES. 


xvii 


It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cer- 
vantes, forced to make brick without straw, should have re- 
course largely to conjecture, and that conjecture should in 
some instances come by degrees to take the place of estab- 
lished fact. All that I propose to do here is to separate what 
is matter of fact from what is matter of conjecture, and leave 
it to the reader’s judgment to decide whether the data justify 
the inference or not. 

The men whose names by common consent stand in the 
front rank of Spanish literature, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, 
Quevedo, Calderon, Garcilaso de la Vega, the Mendozas, Gon- 
gora, were all men of ancient families, and, curiously, all, ex- 
cept the last, of families that traced their origin to the same 
mountain district in the north of Spain. The family of Cer- 
vantes is commonly said to have been of Galician origin, and 
unquestionably it was in possession of lands in Galicia at a 
very early date ; but I think the balance of the evidence tends 
to show that the “ solar,” the original site of the family, was 
at Cervatos in the north-west corner of Old Castile, close to 
the junction of Castile, Leon, and the Asturias. As it hap- 
pens, there is a complete history of the Cervantes family from 
the tenth century down to the seventeenth, extant under 
the title of Illustrious Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and Noble 
Posterity of the Famous Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide of Toledo,” 
written in 1648 by the industrious genealogist Podrigo Mendez 
Silva, who availed himself of a manuscript genealogy by Juan 
de Mena, the poet laureate and historiographer of John II. 

The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso 
was almost as distinguished in the struggle against the Moors 
in the reign of Alfonso VII. as the Cid had been half a cen- 
tury before in that of Alfonso VI., and was rewarded by 
divers grants of land in the neighborhood of Toledo. On one 
of his acquisitions, about two leagues from the city, he built 
himself a castle which he called Cervatos, because — so Salazar 
de Mendoza, in his “ Dignidades de Castilla ” (1618), gives us 
to understand — he was lord of the solar of Servatos in the 
Montana,” as the mountain region extending from the Basque 
Provinces to Leon was always called. At his death in battle 
in 1143, the castle passed by his will to his son Alfonso 
Munio, who, as territorial or local surnames were then coming 
into vogue in place of the simple patronymic, took the addi- 
tional name of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro succeeded him 

VoL. I. -6 


INTRODUCTION. 


xviii 

in the possession of the castle, and followed his example in 
adopting the name, an assumption at which the younger son, 
Gonzalo, seems to have tahen umbrage. 

Every one who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will 
remember the ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot 
where the bridge of Alcantara spans the gorge of the Tagus, 
and with its broken outline and crumbling walls makes such 
an admirable pendant to the square solid Alcazar towering 
over the city roofs on the opposite side. It was built, or as 
some say restored, by Alfonso VI. shortly after his occupation 
of Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a 
Spanish martyr, a name subsequently modified into San 
Servan (in which form it appears in the “ Poem of the Cid ’’), 
San Servantes, and San Cervantes : with regard to which last 
the “ Handbook for Spain ” warns its readers against the sup- 
position that it has anything to do with the author of Don 
Quixote.’^ Eord, as all know who have taken him for a com- 
panion and counsellor on the roads of Spain, is seldom wrong 
in matters of literature or history. In this instance, however, 
he is in error. It has everything to do with the author of 
“ Don Quixote,” for it is in fact these old walls that have 
given to Spain the name she is proudest of to-day. Gonzalo, 
above mentioned, it may be readily conceived, did not relish 
the appropriation by his brother of a name to which he him- 
self had an equal right, for though nominally taken from the 
castle, it was in reality derived from the ancient territorial 
possession of the family ; and as a set-off, and to distinguish 
himself (diferenciarse) from his brother, he took as a surname 
the name of the castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the build- 
ing of which, according to a family tradition, his great-grand- 
father had a share. At the same time, too, in place of the 
family arms, two stags cervato ” means a young stag) on a 
field azure, he took two hinds on a field vert. The story de- 
serves notice, if for no other reason, because it disposes of 
Conde’s ingenious theory that by “ Ben-engeli ” Cervantes in- 
tended an Arabic translation of his own name. Cervantes was 
as unlikely a man as Scott to be ignorant of his own family 
history, or to suppose that the name he bore meant “ son of 
the stag.” 

Both brothers founded families. The Cervatos branch 
flourished for a considerable time, and held many high offices 
in Toledo, but, according to Salazar de Mendoza, it had become 


CERVANTES, 


xix 

extinct and its possessions had passed into other families in 
1618. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity; it sent off> 
shoots in various directions, Andalusia, Estremadura, Galicia, 
and Portugal, and produced a goodly line of men distinguished 
in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself, and 
apparently a son of his, followed Ferdinand III. in the great 
campaign of 1236-48 that gave Cordova and Seville to Chris- 
tian Spain and penned up the Moors in the kingdom of 
Granada, and his descendants intermarried with some of the 
noblest families of the Peninsula and numbered among them 
soldiers, magistrates, and Church dignitaries, including at least 
two cardinal archbishops. 

Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Diego de Cervantes, 
Commander of the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avella- 
neda, daughter of Juan Arias de Saavedra, and had several 
sons, of whom one was Gonzalo Gomez, Corregidor of Jerez and 
ancestor of the Mexican and Columbian branches of the family ; 
and another, Juan, whose son Eodrigo married Dona Leonor 
de Cortinas, and by her had four children, Eodrigo, Andrea, 
Luisa, and Miguel, the author of Don Quixote. ^ It is true 
that documentary evidence is wanting for the absolute identi- 
fication of Juan the Corregidor of Osuna, whom we know to 
have been the grandfather of Cervantes, with Juan the son of 
Diego, but it is not a question that admits of any reasonable 
doubt. It is difficult to see who else he could have been 
if the date and circumstances of the case are taken into con- 
sideration, or how, unless he was the issue of the marriage 
with the daughter of Juan de Saavedra, his grandson could 
have been Cervantes Saavedra; while his name Juan points to 
his having been the son of Juana and grandson of the two 
Juans, Cervantes and Saavedra. The pedigree of Cervantes is 
not without its bearing on Don Quixote.’’ A man who could 
look back upon an ancestry of genuine knights-errant extending 
from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the siege of Granada was 
likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of the sham 
chivalry of the romances. It gives a point, too, to what he 
says in more than one place about families that have once been 
great and have tapered away until they have come to nothing, 
like a pyramid. It was the case of his own. 

He was born at Alcala de Henares, possibly, as his name 
seems to sugge^^^t, on St. Michael’s Day, and baptized in the 
‘ See next page for genealogical table. 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


church of Santa Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. 
Of his boyhood and youth we know nothing, unless it be from 
the glimpse he gives us in the preface to his “ Comedies ” of 
himself as a boy looking on with delight while Lope de Rueda 
and his company set up their rude plank stage in the plaza 
and acted the rustic farces which he himself afterwards took 

*Tello Murielliz (Rico Home of Castile, A.D. 988). 
Oveco Tellez. 

Gonzalo Ovequiz. 

Aldefonso Gonzalez. 

Munio Aldefonso. 

Aldefonso Munio (with Alfonso VI. at Toledo, 1085). 

Nuno Alfonso (Alcaide of Toledo, d. 1143). 

^ 

Pedro I I 

Guttierez=Gimena. Alfonso Munio de Cervatos. 

I 

Pedro Alfonso Gonzalo de Cervantes (with Ferdinand III. 
de Cervatos. | at Seville in 1248). 

Ferdinand of Aragon. Juan Alfonso de Cervantes (Commander of the 

I Order of Calatrava). 

Alonso Gomez Tequetiques de Cervantes. 

Diego Gomez de Cervantes (first to settle in Andalusia). 


Rui Gomez de Cervantes Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes. 

(Prior of the Order of San Juan). I 

I I i 

Cardinal Juan de Cervantes Rodrigo Diego Gomez /Prior of the\ 
(Archbishop of Seville, 1453). de Cervantes, de Cervantes I Order of j 
1 \ San Juan. / 

Juan de Cervantes (Veinticuatro of Seville temp. John II.). 

Diego de 6ervantes = Juana Avellaneda, 

(Commander of the Order of Santiago). | d. of Juan Arias de Saavedra. 

Juan de Cervantes (Corregidor of Osuna) . Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes 
j (Corregidor of Jerez). 

Rodrigo de Cervantes = Leonor de Cortinas. 

Rodrigo, h. 1543. Andrea, h. 1544. Luisa, h. 1546. Miguel, b. 1547. 


CER V ANTES. 


XXI 


as the model of his interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a 
significant one, for it shows the early development of that love 
of the drama which exercised such an influence on his life and 
seems to have grown stronger as he grew older, and of which 
this very preface, written only a few months before his death, 
is such a striking proof. He gives us to understand, too, that 
he was a great reader in his youth ; but of this no assurance 
was needed, for the First Part of Don Quixote ’’ alone proves 
a vast amount of miscellaneous reading, romances of chivalry, 
ballads, popular poetry, chronicles, for which he had no time 
or opportunity except in the first twenty years of his life ; and 
his misquotations and mistakes in matters of detail are al- 
ways, it may be noticed, those of a man recalling the reading 
of his boyhood. 

Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when 
Cervantes was a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every 
way a transition period for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain 
had passed away. Its work was done when Granada surren- 
dered. The new Spain was the mightiest power the world had 
seen since the Roman Empire, and it had not yet been called 
upon to pay the price of its greatness. By the policy of Ferdi- 
nand and Ximenez the sovereign had been made absolute, and 
the Church and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. 
The nobles, who had always resisted absolutism as strenuously 
as they had fought the Moors, had been divested of all political 
power, a like fate had befallen the cities, the free constitutions 
of Castile and Aragon had been swept away, and the only 
function that remained to the Cortes was that of granting 
money at the King’s dictation. But the loss of liberty was 
not felt immediately, for Charles V. was like an accomplished 
horseman with a firm seat and a light hand, who can manage 
the steed without fretting it, and make it do his will while he 
leaves its movements to all appearance free. 

The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Gar- 
cilaso de la Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed 
the Italian wars, had brought back from Italy the products of 
the post-Benaissance literature, which took root and flourished 
and even threatened to extinguish the native growths. Damon 
and Thyrsis, Phillis and Chloe had been fairly naturalized in 
Spain, together with all the devices of pastoral poetry for 
investing with an air of novelty the idea of a despairing 
shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. Sannazaro’s Arcadia” 


XXll 


INTRODUCTION. 


had introduced the taste for prose pastorals, which soon bore 
fruit in Montemayor’s Diana’’ and its successors; and as for 
the sonnet, it was spreading like the rabbit in Australia. As 
a set-off against this, the old historical and traditional ballads, 
and the true pastorals, the songs and ballads of peasant life, 
were being collected assiduously and printed in the cancioneros 
that succeeded one another with increasing rapidity. But the 
most notable consequence, perhaps, of the spread of printing 
was the flood of romances of chivalry that had continued to 
pour from the press ever since Garci Ordonez de Montalvo had 
resuscitated Amadis of Gaul ” at the beginning of the century. 

For a youth fond of reading, solid or light, there could 
have been no better spot in Spain than Alcala de Henares in 
the middle of the sixteenth century. It was then a busy, 
populous university town, something more than the enter- 
prising rival of .Salamanca, and altogether a very different 
place from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcala the trav- 
eller sees now as he goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theol- 
ogy and medicine may have 'been the strong points of the 
university, but the town itself seems to have inclined rather 
to the humanities and light literature, and as a producer of 
books Alcala was already beginning to compete with the 
older presses of Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca, and Seville. 

A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his 
first playgoings might, no doubt, have been often seen in the 
streets of Alcala at that time ; a bright, eager, tawny-haired 
boy peering into a bookshop where the latest volumes lay 
open to tempt the public, wondering, it may be, what that 
little book with the woodcut of the blind beggar and his boy, 
that called itself Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, segunda 
impresion,” could be about ; or with eyes brimming over with 
merriment gazing at one of those preposterous portraits of a 
knight-errant in outrageous panoply and plumes with which 
the publishers of chivalry romances loved to embellish the 
titlepages of their folios. He had seen the Emperor’s German 
ritters many a time, but they were slim pages in satin com- 
pared with this. What fun it would be to see such a figure 
come charging into the plaza ! How he ’d frighten the old 
women and scatter the turkeys ! If the boy was the father 
of the man, the sense of the incongruous that was strong at 
fifty was lively at ten, and some such reflections as these maj 
have been the true genesis of “ Don Quixote.” 


CERVANTES. 


XXlll 


For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Sala- 
manca. But why Bodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor, 
should have sent his son to a university a hundred and fifty 
miles away when he had one at his own door, would be a 
puzzle, if we had any reason for supposing that he did so. 
The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas 
Gonzalez, that he once saw an old entry of the matriculation 
of a Miguel de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been 
ever seen again ; but even if it had, and if the date corre- 
sponded, it would prove nothing, as there were at least two 
other Miguels born about the middle of the century ; one of 
them, moreover, a Cervantes Saavedra, a cousin, no doubt, 
who was a source of great embarassment to the biographers. 

That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcala 
is best proved by his own works. No man drew more largely 
upon experience than he did, and he has nowhere left a single 
reminiscence of student life — for the Tia Pingida,” if it 
be his, is not one — nothing, not even a college joke,*’ to 
show that he remembered days that most men remember best 
All that we know positively about his education is that Juan 
Lopez de Hoyos, a professor of humanities and belles-lettres 
of some eminence, calls him his dear and beloved pupil.” 
This was in a little collection of verses by different hands on 
the death of Isabel de Valois, second queen of Philip II., 
published by the professor in 1569, to which Cervantes con- 
tributed four pieces, including an elegy, and an epitaph in the 
form of a sonnet. It is only by a rare chance that a Lyci- 
das ” finds its way into a volume of this sort, and Cervantes 
was no Milton. His verses are no worse than such things 
usually are ; so much, at least, may be said for them. 

By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as 
fate ordered it, for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his 
life. Giulio, afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent 
at the end of 1568 to Philip II. by the Pope on a mission, 
partly of condolence, partly political, and on his return to 
Borne, which was somewhat brusquely expedited by the King, 
he took Cervantes with him as his cainerero (chamberlain), 
the office he himself held in the Pope’s household. The post 
would no doubt have led to advancement at the Papal Court 
had Cervantes retained it, but in the summer of 1570 he re- 
signed it and enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego 
de Urbina’s company, belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada’s 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


regiment, but at that time forming a part of the command of 
Marc Antony Colonna. What impelled him to this step we 
know not, whether it was distaste for the career before him, 
or purely military enthusiasm. It may well have been the 
latter, for it was a stirring time ; the events, however, which 
led to the alliance between Spain, Venice, and the Pope, against 
the common enemy, the Porte, and to the victory of the com- 
bined fleets at Lepanto, belong rather to the history of Europe 
than to the life of Cervantes. He was one of those that sailed 
from Messina, in September 1571, under the command of Don 
John of Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of October, 
when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill 
with fever. At the news that the enemy was in sight he rose, 
and, in spite of the remonstrances of his comrades and superiors, 
insisted on taking his post, saying he preferred death in the 
service of God and the King to health. His galley, the Mar- 
quesa, was in the thick of the fight, and before it was over he 
had received three gunshot wounds, two in the breast and one 
in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battle, 
according to Navarrete, he had an interview with the com- 
mander-in-chief, Don John, who was making a personal inspec- 
tion of the wounded, one result of which was an addition of 
three crowns to his pay, and another, apparently, the friend- 
ship of his general. Strada says of Don J ohn that he knew 
personally every soldier under his command, but at any rate 
it was as much for his friendly bearing and solicitude for their 
comfort and well-being as for his abilities and gallantry in the 
held that he was beloved by his men, and it is easy to con- 
ceive that he should have taken a special interest in the case 
of Cervantes, who, it may be observed, was exactly his own 
age, and curiously enough — though it is not very likely Don 
John was aware of the fact — his kinsman in a remote degree, 
inasmuch as the mother of Ferdinand of Aragon was a de- 
scendant of Nuno Alfonso above mentioned. 

How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from 
the fact, that with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful 
and buoyant a temperament as ever invalid had, he was seven 
months in hospital at Messina before he was discharged. He 
came out with his left hand permanently disabled; he had 
lost the use of it, as Mercury told him in the “ Viaje del Par- 
naso,’’ for the greater glory of the right. This, however, did 
not absolutely unfit him for service, and in April 1572 he 


CERVANTES. 


XXV 


joined Manuel Ponce de Leon’s company of Lope de Figueroa’s 
regiment, in which, it seems probable, his brother Eodrigo 
was serving, and shared in the operations of the next three 
years, including the capture of the Goletta and Tunis. Tak- 
ing advantage of the lull which followed the recapture of 
these places by the Turks, he obtained leave to return to 
Spain, and sailed from Naples in September 1575 on board 
the Sun galley, in company with his brother Kodrigo, Pedro 
Carillo de Quesada, late Governor of the Goletta, and some 
others, and furnished with letters from Don John of Austria 
and the Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of Sicily, recommending 
him to the King for the command of a company, on account 
of his services ; a dono infelice as events proved. On the 26th 
they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a 
stout resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers. 

It is not easy to resist the temptation to linger over the 
story of Cervantes’ captivity in Algiers, for in truth a more 
wonderful story has seldom been told. Alexandre Dumas 
could hardly have invented so marvellous a series of advem 
tures, and certainly would have hesitated before he asked even 
romance readers to accept anything so improbable. Never- 
theless, incredible as the tale may seem, there is evidence for 
every particular that scepticism itself will not venture to call 
in question. At the distribution of the captives, Cervantes 
fell to the share of one Ali or Dali Mami, the rais or captain 
of one of the galleys, and a renegade, as were almost all em- 
barked in the trade ; for a trade the capture of Christians had 
now become, as Cervantes implies in the title of the Trato 
de Argel.” The Turks, to supply the demand for rowers, 
dockyard laborers, and the like, for their great Mediterranean 
fleet, had long been in the habit of kidnapping, either by mak- 
ing descents upon the coasts, or seizing the crews of vessels at 
sea. Moved by the sufferings of the unhappy victims, noble- 
minded men of various religious orders in Spain devoted 
themselves to the work of negotiating the release of as many 
as it was possible to ransom, acting as intermediaries between 
the captors and the friends of the captives, making up the 
sums required out of the funds contributed by the charitable, 
and even, as Cervantes himself says in the Trato de Argel ” 
and the novel of the Espanola Inglesa,” surrendering them- 
selves as hostages when the money was not immediately forth- 
coming. It seems strange that a proud and powerful nation 


XXVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


should have submitted to this ; and stranger still that Philip 
should have condescended to countenance negotiations of the 
sort, and formally recognize the Eedemptorist Fathers as his 
agents, when probably a tenth of the force he was employing 
to stamp out heresy among his Flemish subjects would have 
sufficed to destroy the nest of pirates that was the centre of 
the trade. To this pass had one-man power ” already brought 
Spain in the last quarter of the sixteenth century. As is 
unhappily often the case with philanthropic efforts, the exer- 
tions of the good Eedemptorist Fathers aggravated the evil. 
They supplied an additional motive for capturing Christians 
by affording facilities for converting captives into cash, and 
by making them valuable as property added to their misery. 

By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers con- 
trived to inform their family of their condition, and the poor 
people at Alcala at once strove to raise the ransom money, the 
father disposing of all he possessed, and the two sisters giving 
up their marriage portions. But Dali Mami had found on 
Cervantes the letters addressed to the King by Don John and 
the Duke of Sesa, and, concluding that his prize must be a 
person of great consequence, when the money came he refused 
it scornfully as being altogether insufficient. The owner of 
Eodrigo, however, was more easily satisfied ; ransom was 
accepted in his case, and it was arranged between the 
brothers that he should return to Spain and procure a vessel 
in which he was to come back to Algiers and take off Miguel 
and as many of their comrades as possible. This was not the 
first attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon after 
the commencement of his captivity he induced several of his 
companions to join him in trying to reach Oran, then a 
Spanish post, on foot ; but after the first day’s journey, the 
Moor who had agreed to act as their guide deserted them, 
and they had no choice but to return. The second attempt 
was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the 
seashore, he constructed, with the help of the gardener, a 
Spaniard, a hiding-place, to which he brought, one by one, 
fourteen of his fellow-captives, keeping them there in secrecy 
for several months, and supplying them with food through a 
renegade known as El Dorador, the Gilder.” How he, a 
captive himself, contrived to do all this, is one of the mysteries 
of the story. Wild as the project may appear, it was very 
nearly successful. The vessel procured by Eodiigo made its 


CERVANTES, 


xxvii 


appearance off the coast, and under cover of night was pro- 
ceeding to take off the refugees, when the crew were alarmed 
by a passing fishing boat, and beat a hasty retreat. On re- 
newing the attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a portion of 
them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the poor fel- 
lows in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few 
moments more freedom would be within their grasp, they 
found themselves surrounded by Turkish troops, horse and 
foot. The Dorador had revealed the whole scene to the Dey 
Hassan. 

When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged 
hie companions to lay all the blame upon him, and as they 
were being bound he declared aloud that the whole plot was 
of his contriving, and that nobody else had any share in it. 
Brought before the Dey, he said the same. He was threatened 
with impalement and with torture ; and as cutting off ears and 
noses were playful freaks with the Algerines, it may be con- 
ceived what their tortures were like ; but nothing could make 
him swerve from his original statement that he and he alone 
was responsible. The upshot was that the unhappy gardener 
was hanged by his master, and the prisoners taken possession 
of by the Dey, who, however, afterwards restored most of them 
to their masters, but kept Cervantes, paying Dali Mami 500 
crowns for him. He felt, no doubt, that a man of such re- 
source, enegy, and daring, was too dangerous a piece of prop- 
erty to be left in private hands ; and he had him heavily 
ironed and lodged in his own prison. If he thought that by 
these means he could break the spirit or shake the resolution 
of his prisoner, he was soon undeceived, for Cervantes con- 
trived before long to despatch a letter to the Governor of Oran, 
entreating him to send him some one that could be trusted, to 
enable him and three other gentlemen, fellow-captives of his, 
to make their escape ; intending evidently to renew his first 
attempt with a more trustworthy guide. Unfortunately the 
Moor who carried the letter was stopped just outside Oran, 
and the letter being found upon him, he was sent back to 
Algiers, where by the order of the Dey he was promptly im- 
paled as a warning to others, while Cervantes was condemned 
to receive two thousand blows of the stick, a number which 
most likely would have deprived the world of Don Quixote,’^ 
had not some persons, who they were we know not, interceded 
on his behalf. 


XXVlll 


INTRODUCTION. 


After this he seems to have been kept in still closer 
confinement than before, for nearly two years passed be- 
fore he made another attempt. This time his plan was to pur- 
chase, by the aid of a Spanish renegade and two Valencian 
merchants, resident in Algiers, an armed vessel in which he 
and about sixty of the leading captives were to make their es- 
cape ; but just as they were about to put it into execution, one 
Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a compatriot, 
informed the Dey of the plot. The Dorador, who had be- 
trayed him on the former occasion, was a poor creature, influ- 
enced probably by fear of the consequences, but Blanco de 
Paz was a scoundrel of deeper dye. Cervantes by force of 
character, by his self-devotion, by his untiring energy and his 
exertions to lighten the lot of his companions in misery, had 
endeared himself to all, and become the leading spirit in the 
captive colony, and, incredible as it may seem, jealousy of his 
influence and the esteem in which he was held, moved this man 
to compass his destruction by a cruel death. The merchants, 
finding that the Dey knew all, and fearing that Cervantes 
under torture might make disclosures that would imperil their 
own lives, tried to persuade him to slip away on board a vessel 
that was on the point of sailing for Spain ; but he told them 
they had nothing to fear, for no tortures would make him com- 
promise anybody, and he went at once and gave himself up to 
the Dey. 

As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accom- 
plices. Everything was made ready for his immediate execu- 
tion ; the halter was put round his neck and his hands tied 
behind him, but all that could be got from him was that he 
himself, with the help of four gentlemen who had since left 
Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that the sixty who were 
to accompany him were not to know anything of it until the 
last moment. Finding he could make nothing of him, the 
Dey sent him back to prison more heavily ironed than before. 

But bold as these projects were, they were surpassed in dar- 
ing by a plot to bring about a revolt of all the Christians in 
Algiers, twenty or twenty-five thousand in number, overpower 
the Turks, and seize the city. Of the details of his plan we 
know nothing ; all we know is that at least two of those in 
his confidence believed it would have been successful had it not 
been for the treachery of some persons in the secret ; and cer- 
tain it is that the Dey Hassan stood in awe of Cervantes, and 


CERVANTES. 


XXIX 


used to say that so long as he kept tight hold of the crippled 
Spaniard, his captives, his ships, and his city were safe. What 
was it, then, that made him hold his hand in his paroxysms of 
rage ? When it was so easy to relieve himself of all the trouble 
and anxiety his prisoner caused him, what was it that restrained 
him? It may be said it was the admiration he felt at the noble 
bearing, dauntless courage, and self-devotion of the man, that 
made him merciful. But is it likely that the fiend Haedo and 
Cervantes describe, who hanged, impaled, and cut off ears every 
day, for the mere pleasure of doing it — who most likely had, 
like his friend the Arnaut Mami, a house filled with noseless 
Christians ’’ — would have been influenced by any such feel- 
ing ? There are, we know, men who seem to bear a charmed 
life among savages, and to exercise some mysterious power 
over the savage mind ; but the Dey Hassan was no savage ; 
he was worse. With all respect for the Haedos, uncle and 
nephew, and their chief informant Doctor de Sosa, it would 
be hard to avoid a suspicion that they had exaggerated, were 
it not that the story they tell is confirmed in every particular 
by a formally attested document discovered in 1808 by Cean 
Bermudez, acting on a suggestion of Navarrete’s, in the 
Archivo General de Indias at Seville. 

The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this 
time trying once more to raise the ransom money, and at last 
a sum of three hundred ducats was got together and intrusted 
to the Eedemptorist Father Juan Gil, who was about to sail 
for Algiers. The Dey, however, demanded more than double 
the sum offered, and as his term of office had expired and he 
was about to sail for Constantinople, taking all his slaves with 
him, the case of Cervantes was critical. He was already on 
board heavily ironed, when the Dey at length agreed to reduce 
his demand by one-half, and Father Gil by borrowing was able 
to make up the amount, and on September 19, 1580, after a 
captivity of five years all but a week, Cervantes was at last 
set free. Before long he discovered that Blanco de Paz, who 
claimed to be an of&cer of the Inquisition, was now concocting 
on false evidence a charge of misconduct to be brought against 
him on his return to Spain. To checkmate him Cervantes 
drew up a series of twenty-five questions, covering the whole 
period of his captivity, upon which he requested Father Gil 
to take the depositions of credible witnesses before a notary. 
Eleven witnesses taken from among the principal captives in 


XXX 


INTRODUCTION. 


Algiers deposed to all the facts above stated (except of course 
the intended seizure of the city, which was too compromising a 
matter to be referred to), and to a great deal more besides. 
There is something touching in the admiration, love, and 
gratitude we see struggling to find expression in the formal 
language of the notary, as they testify one after another to 
the good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and helped the 
weak-hearted, how he kept up their drooping courage,* how he 
shared his poor purse with this deponent, and how in him 
this deponent found father and mother.” 

On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to 
march for Portugal to support Philip’s claim to the crown, and 
utterly penniless now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was 
in the expeditions to the Azores in 1582 and the following 
year, and on the conclusion of the war returned to Spain in 
the autumn of 1583, bringing with him the manuscript of his 
pastoral romance, the Galatea,” and probably also, to judge 
by internal evidence, that of the first portion of Persiles and 
Sigismunda.” He also brought back with him, his biogra- 
phers assert, an infant daughter, the offspring of an amour, as 
some of them with great circumstantiality inform us, with a 
Lisbon lady of noble birth, whose name, however, as well as 
that of the street she lived in, they omit to mention. The sole 
foundation for all this is that in 1605 there certainly was liv- 
ing in the family of Cervantes a Dona Isabel de Saavedra, 
who is described in an official document as his natural daughter, 
and then twenty years of age. This is all we know about her, 
unless she is to be identified with the sister Isabel who in 1614 
took the veil in the convent in which he himself was after- 
wards buried. 

With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was 
hopeless, now that Don John was dead and he had no one to 
press his claims and services, and for a man drawing on to 
forty life in the ranks was a dismal prospect ; he had already 
a certain reputation as a poet ; Luis Galvez de Montalvo had 
mentioned him as a distinguished one in the Pastor de 
Filida” in 1582, and we know from Doctor de Sosa, one of 
the witnesses examined at Algiers, that he used to beguile his 
imprisonment with poetry ; he made up his mind, therefore, to 
cast his lot with literature, and for a first venture committed his 

Galatea” to the press. It was published, as Salva y Mallen 
shows conclusively, at Alcala, his own birthplace, in 1585, 


CERVANTES. 


xxxi 


not at Madrid in 1584 as his biographers and bibliographers 
all say, and no doubt helped to make his name more widely 
known, but certainly did not do him much good in any other 
way. 

While it was going through the press, he married Dona Ca- 
talina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias 
near Madrid, and apparently a friend of the family, who 
brought him a fortune which may possibly have served to keep 
the wolf from the door, but if so, that was all. The drama 
had by this time outgrown market-place stages and strolling 
companies, and with his old love for it he naturally turned to 
it for a congenial employment. In about three years he wrote 
twenty or thirty plays, which he tells us were performed with- 
out any throwing of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their 
course without any hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other 
words, his plays were not bad enough to be hissed off the 
stage, but not good enough to hold their own upon it. Only 
two of them have been preserved, but as they happen to be 
two of the seven or eight he mentions with complacency, we 
may assume they are favorable specimens, and no one who 
reads the Numancia ” and the Trato de Argel ” will feel 
any surprise that they failed as acting dramas. Whatever 
merits they may have, whatever occasional power they may 
show, they are, as regards construction, incurably clumsy. 
How completely they failed is manifest from the fact that 
with all his sanguine temperament and indomitable persever- 
ance he was unable to maintain the struggle to gain a liveli- 
hood as a dramatist for more than three years ; nor was the 
rising popularity of Lope the cause, as is often said, notwith- 
standing his own words to the contrary. When Lope began 
to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was certainly after 
Cervantes went to Seville. 

This, according to Navarrete, was in 1588, but the “ Nuevos 
Documentos’’ published by Don Jose Asensio y Toledo in 
1864 show that it must have been early in 1587. His first 
employment seems to have been under Diego de Valdivia, a 
judge of the Audiencia Real, but at the beginning of 1588 he 
was appointed one of four deputy purveyors under Antonio de 
Guevara, purveyor-general to that fleet of the Indies ” known 
to history as the Invincible Armada. It was no doubt an 
irksome and ill-paid office, for in 1590 he addressed a memo- 
rial to the King, setting forth his services and petitioning for 


XXXll 


INTRODUCTION, 


an appointment to one of three or four posts then vacant in 
the Spanish possessions across the Atlantic, an application 
whlcii, fortunately for the world, was “ referred,” it would 
seem, to some official in the Indies Office at Seville, and being 
shelved, so remained until it was discovered among the docu- 
ments brought to light by Cean Bermudez. 

Among the Nuevos Documentos ” printed by Senor Asensio 
y Toledo is one dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of 
Cervantes. It is an agreement with one Kodrigo Osorio, a 
manager, who was to accept six comedies at fifty ducats (about 
Q>L) apiece, not to be paid in any case unless it appeared on 
representation that the said comedy was one of the best that 
had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not seem 
to have been ever applied ; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent 
to Rodrigo Osorio that the comedies were not among the best 
that had ever been represented. Among the correspondence of 
Cervantes there might have been found, no doubt, more than 
one letter like that we see in the Rake’s Progress,” Sir, I 
have read your play, and it will not doo.” 

He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 
1595 in honor of the canonization of St. Jacinto, when his 
composition won the first prize, three silver spoons. The year 
before this he had been appointed a collector of revenues for 
the kingdom of Granada, a better post probably than his first, 
but certainly a more responsible one, as he found in the end to 
his cost. In order to remit the money he had collected more 
conveniently to the treasury, he intrusted it to a merchant, 
who failed and absconded; and as the bankrupt’s assets were 
insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to prison at Seville 
in September 1597. The balance against him, however, was 
a small one, about 26Z., and on giving security for it he was 
released at the end of the year. 

It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the 
king’s taxes, that he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life 
and character that abound in the pages of “ Don Quixote : ” 
the Benedictine monks wiiii spectacles and sunshades, mounted 
on their tall mules ; the strollers in costume bound for the next 
village ; the barber with his basin on his head, on his way to 
bleed a patient ; the recruit with his breeches in his bundle, 
tramping along the road singing ; the reapers gathered in the 
venta gateway listening to Felixmarte de Hircania ” read out 
to them ; and those little Hogarthian touches that he so well 


CERVANTES. 


xxxiii 

knew how to bring in, the ox-tail hanging up with the land< 
lord’s comb stuck in it, the wine-skins at the bed-head, and 
those notable examples of hostelry art, Helen going off in 
high spirits on Paris’s arm, and Dido on the tower dropping 
tears as big as walnuts. Hay, it may well be that on those 
journeys into remote regions he came across now and then a 
specimen of the pauper gentleman, with his lean hack and his 
greyhound and his books of chivalry, dreaming away his life 
in happy ignorance that the world had changed since his 
great-grandfather’s old helmet was new. But it was in Seville 
that he found out his true vocation, though he himself would 
not by any means have admitted it to be so. It was there, in 
the Triana, that he was first tempted to try his hand at draw- 
ing from life, and first brought his humor into play in the 
exquisite little sketch of Einconete y Cortadillo,” the germ, 
in more ways than one, of Don Quixote.” 

Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After 
his im]3risonment all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity 
disappears, from which it may be inferred that he was not 
reinstated. That he was still in Seville in Hovember 1598 
appears from a satirical sonnet of his on the elaborate cata- 
falque erected to testify the grief of the city at the death of 
Philip II., but from this up to 1603 we have no clew to his 
movements. The words in the preface to the First Part of 
Don Quixote ” are generally held to be conclusive that he con- 
ceived the idea of the book, and wrote the beginning of it at 
least, in a prison, and that he may have done so is extremely 
likely. At the same time it should be borne in mind that they 
contain no assertion to that effect, and may mean nothing 
more than that this brain-child of his was begotten under cir- 
cumstances as depressing as prison life. If we accept them 
literally, the prison may very well have been that in which he 
was confined for nearly three months at Seville. 

The story of his having been imprisoned afterwards at Ar- 
gamasilla de Alba rests entirely on local tradition. That 
Argamasilla is Don Quixote’s village does not admit of a doubt. 
Even if Cervantes himself had not owned it by making the 
Academicians of Argamasilla write verses in honor of Don 
Quixote, there is no other town or village in La Mancha, ex- 
cept perhaps its near neighbor Tomelloso, the relative position 
of which to the field of Montiel, the high road to Seville, Puerto 
Lapice, and the Sierra Morena, agrees with the narrative ; and 

VOL. I.-C 


XXXVl 


INTRODUCTION. 


they were until Don Quixote ’’ was written. The first pub- 
lic praise Lope ever got was from Cervantes in the Galatea ; ” 
and when he published his <‘Dragontea” in 1598 Cervantes 
wrote for it a not ungraceful sonnet upon that fertile Vega 
that every day offers us fresh fruits ; ’’ and Lope on his 
part mentioned Cervantes in a complimentary way in the 
Arcadia.’’ 

But Cervantes’ criticism on the drama of the new school, 
though in truth it amounts to no more than Lope himself ad- 
mitted in 1602 in the New Art of Comedy Writing,” seems to 
have changed all this. Cervantes, indeed, to the last generously 
and manfully declared his admiration of Lope’s powers, his 
unfailing invention, and his marvellous fertility ; but in the 
preface to the First Part of Don Quixote ” and in the verses 
of Urganda the Unknown,” and one or two other places, 
there are, if we read between the lines, sly hits at Lope’s 
vanities and affectations that argue no personal good-will ; and 
Lope openly sneers at Don Quixote ” and Cervantes, and four- 
teen years after his death gives him only a few lines of cold 
commonplace in the Laurel de Apolo,” that seem all the 
colder for the eulogies of a host of nonentities whose names 
are found nowhere else. 

There was little in the First Part of Don Quixote ” to give 
offence to Gongora and his school, but no doubt instinct told 
them that the man who wrote it was no friend of theirs (as 
was abundantly proved when the Second Part came out), and 
they showed their animus almost immediately. There were 
great rejoicings at Valladolid in the spring of 1605, on the 
occasion of the baptism of the prince, afterwards Philip IV., 
which coincided with the arrival of Lord Howard of Effingham 
and a numerous retinue to ratify the treaty of peace between 
England and Spain, and the official Kelacion ” of the fete is 
believed by Pellicer, Navarrete, Hartzenbusch and others to 
have been written by Cervantes. Thereupon there appeared 
a sonnet in that bitter trenchant style of which Gongora was 
such a master, declaring that the sole object of the expenditure 
and display was to do honor to the heretics and Lutherans, and 
taunting the authorities with having employed Don Quixote, 
Sancho, and his ass ” to write an account of their doings. In 
the opinion of Don Pascual de Gayangos Cervantes en Valla- 
dolid,” Madrid, 1884) the connection of Cervantes with the 
“ Relacion ” is doubtful, as it is also that Gongora, to whom 


CERVANTES. 


xxxvii 


the sonnet is generally attributed, was really the author. All 
that can be said is that it is in his manner, and that the ref- 
erence to the heretics and Lutherans is Gongora all over ; if not 
his it comes from his school, and shows the feeling existing in 
that quarter towards Cervantes and his work. 

In another piece, still more characteristic, he makes an 
attack on Cervantes which has never been noticed, so far as I 
am aware. In the ballad beginning Castillo de San Cer- 
vantes ’’ he taunts the old castle on the Tagus, already referred 
to, with being no longer what it was in the days of its youth 
when it did such gallant service against the Moors, compares 
its crumbling battlements to an old man’s teeth, and bids it 
look down and see in the stream below how age has changed 
it. Depping, who inserts the ballad in his E-omancero,” 
admits that the idea is poetical, but confesses he cannot see 
the drift of the poet, who seems to him to be here rather a 
preacher than a poet, and no doubt others have shared his 
perplexity. It was evidently a recognized gibe to compare 
Cervantes to the ruined castle that bore his name ; Avellaneda, 
in the scurrilous preface to his continuation of Don Quixote,” 
jeers at him in precisely the same strain as the ballad, for 
having grown as old, and being as much the worse for time as 
the castle of San Cervantes. Gongora, it may be observed, 
had a special gift of writing pretty, innocent-looking verses 
charged with venom. Who would take the lines to a mountain 
brook, beginning — 

Whither away, my little river, 

Why leap down so eagerly. 

Thou to be lost in the Guadalquivir, 

The Guadalquivir in the sea? 

as guileless apparently as a lyrical ballad of Wordsworth’s, 
to be in reality a bitter satire on the unlucky upstart, Eodrigo 
Calderon ? 

Another reason for the enmity of Gongora and his clique to 
Cervantes may well have been that their arch-enemy Quevedo 
was a friend of his. Cervantes, indeed, expressly declares his 
esteem for Quevedo as the scourge of silly poets.” It is a 
pity that we know so little of the relations of these two men 
to one another. Quevedo nowhere mentions Cervantes per- 
sonally, though he shows himself to have been an appreciative 
reader of Don Quixote,” and Cervantes only twice mentions 


xl 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ Senora Cornelia/^ the Casamiento Enganoso/^ and the 
“ Coloquio de los Perros ’’ were all written between 1606 and 
1612. 

Whether the “ Tia Eingida/’ which is now generally in- 
cluded in his novels, is the work of Cervantes or not, must be 
left an open question. No one who has read it in the origi- 
nal would willingly accept it, but disrelish is no reason for 
summarily rejecting it, and it cannot be denied that the style 
closely resembles his. There is nothing in the objection that 
usted ” is never used by Cervantes for vuestra merced,^^ 
for its employment in the tale may be due to the transcriber 
or printer, and of the two MSS. in existence one at least, 
though certainly not in the handwriting, is of the time of 
Cervantes, in the opinion of so good a judge as Senor Eer- 
nandez-Guerra y Orbe. The novels were published in the 
summer of 1613, with a dedication to the Conde de Lemos, 
the Maecenas of the day, and with one of those chatty confi- 
dential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In this eight 
years and a half after the Eirst Part of Don Quixote ” had 
appeared, we get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part. 

You shall see shortly,’^ he says, “ the further exploits of 
Don Quixote and humors of Sancho Panza.’’ His idea of 
“ shortly ” was a somewhat elastic one, for, as we know by 
the date to Sancho’s letter, he had barely one-half of the 
book completed that time twelvemonth. 

The fact was that, to use a popular phrase, he had many 
irons in the fire.” There was the Second Part of his Gala- 
tea ” to be written, his ‘‘ Persiles ” to be finished, he had on his 
hands his Semanas del Jardin” and his Bernardo,” of the 
nature of which we know nothing, and there was the “ Viaje 
del Parnaso ” to be got ready for the press. The last, now 
made accessible to English readers by the admirable trans- 
lation of Mr. James Y. Gibson, had been, in part at least, 
written about three years before the novels were printed. 
Its motive was the commission given by the Conde de Lemos, 
on his appointment as Viceroy of Naples, to the brothers 
Argensola to select poets to grace his court, which suggested 
to Cervantes the idea of a struggle for Parnassus between the 
good and bad poets ; and as he worked it out he passed in 
review every poet and poetaster in Spain. But it is what he 
says about himself in it, and in the prose appendix to it, the 
Adjunta,” that gives it its chief value and interest now, and 


CERVANTES, 


xli 


from no other source do we learn so much about him and his 
writings, and his own estimate of them. 

But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his 
dramatic ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same 
indomitable spirit that kept him from despair in the bagnios 
of Algiers, and prompted him to attempt the escape of him- 
self and his comrades again and again, made him persevere 
in spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to win 
the ear of the public as a dramatist. The temperament of 
Cervantes was essentially sanguine. The portrait he draws 
in the preface to the novels, with the aquiline features, chest- 
nut hair, smooth untroubled forehead, and bright cheerful 
eyes, is the very portrait of a ^sanguine man. Nothing that 
the managers might say could persuade him that the merits 
of his plays would not be recognized at last if they were only 
given a fair chance. In the famous forty -eighth chapter of 
‘•Don Quixote,’^ in the Adjunta to the “Viaje del Parnaso,’^ 
in the preface to his comedies, and other places, he shows 
plainly enough the ambition that lay next his heart. The 
old soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent on being the 
^schylus of Spain. He was to found a great national 
drama, based on the true principles of art, that was to be 
the envy of all nations ; he was to drive from the stage the 
silly, childish plays, the “ mirrors of nonsense and models of 
folly ” that were in vogue through the cupidity of the man- 
agers and short-sightedness of the authors ; he was to correct 
and educate the public taste until it was ripe for tragedies on 
the model of the Greek drama — like the “ Numancia for 
instance — and comedies that would not only amuse but im- 
prove and instruct. All this he was to do, could he once get 
a hearing : there was the initial difficulty. 

He shows plainly enough, too, that “ Don Quixote ’’ and 
the demolition of the chivalry romances was not the work 
that lay next his heart. He was, indeed, as he says himself 
in his preface, more a stepfather than a father to “ Don 
Quixote.^’ Never was great work so neglected by its author. 
That it was written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and starts, 
was not always his fault, but it seems clear he never read 
what he sent to the press. He knew how the printers had 
blundered, but he never took the trouble to correct them 
when the third edition was in progress, as a man who really 
cared for the child of his brain would have done. He appears 


xlii 


INTRODUCTION. 


to have regarded the book as little more than a mere libro 
de entretenimiento/’ an amusing book, a thing, as he says in 
the Viaje,’^ to divert the melancholy moody heart at any 
time or season/^ No doubt he had an affection for his hero, 
and was very proud of Sancho Panza. It would have been 
strange indeed if he had not been proud of the most humor- 
ous creation in all fiction. He was proud, too, of the popu- 
larity and success of the book, and beyond measure delightful 
is the naivete with which he shows his pride in a dozen pas- 
sages in the Second Part. But it was not the success he 
coveted. In all probability he would have given all the 
success of Don Quixote,’^ nay, would have seen every copy 
of <^Don Quixote’^ burned in ^ the Plaza Mayor, for one such 
success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an average once a 
week. 

And so he went on, dawdling over Don Quixote,” adding a 
chapter now and again, and putting it aside to turn to Per- 
siles and Sigismunda ” — which, as we know, was to be the 
most entertaining book in the language, and the rival of The- 
agenes and Chariclea ” — or finishing off one of his darling 
comedies ; and if Kobles asked when ‘‘ Don Quixote ” would 
be ready, the answer no doubt was con brevedad ” — shortly, 
there was time enough for that. At sixty-eight he was as 
full of life and hope and plans for the future as a boy 
of eighteen. 

Nemesis was coming, however. He had got as far as chap- 
ter lix., which at his leisurely pace he could hardly have 
reached before October or November 1614, when there was 
put into his hand a small octavo lately printed at Tarragona, 
and calling itself “ Second Volume of the Ingenious Gentle- 
man Don Quixote of La Mancha : by the Licentiate Alonso 
Pernandez de Avellaneda of Tordesillas.” The last half of 
chapter lix. and most of the following chapters of the Second 
Part give us some idea of the effect produced upon him, and 
his irritation was not likely to be lessened by the reflection 
that he had no one to blame but himself. Had Avellaneda, in 
fact, been content with merely bringing out a continuation 
to Don Quixote,” Cervantes would have had no reasonable 
grievance. His own intentions were expressed in the very 
vaguest language at the end of the book; nay, in his last 
words, forse altri cantera con miglior plettro,” he seems actu- 
ally to invite some one else to continue the work, and he made 


CERVANTES, 


xliij 


no sign until eight years and a half had gone by ; by which 
time Avellaneda’s volume was no doubt written. 

In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as 
the mere continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose 
to write a preface to it, full of such coarse personal abuse as 
only an ill-conditioned man could pour out. He taunts Cer- 
vantes with being old, with having lost his hand, with having 
been in prison, with being poor, with being friendless, accuses 
him of envy of Lope’s success, of petulance and querulous- 
ness, and so on ; and it was in this that the sting lay. Ave- 
llaneda’s reason for this personal attack is obvious enough. 
Whoever he may have been, it is clear that he was one of 
the dramatists of Lope’s school, for he had the impudence to 
charge Cervantes with attacking him as well as Lope in his 
criticism on the drama. His identification has exercised the 
best critics and baflled all the ingenuity and research that has 
been brought to bear on it. Navarrete and Ticknor both in- 
cline to the belief that Cervantes knew who he was ; but I 
must say I think the anger he shows suggests an invisible 
assailant ; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a mos- 
quito in the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of lan- 
guage pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an 
Aragonese himself, supports this view and believes him, more- 
over, to have been an ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably. It 
has been suggested that he was Luis de Aliaga, the King’s 
confessor ; Andres Perez, the author of the Picara Justina ; ” 
Bartolome de Argensola, the poet; Cervantes’ old enemy, 
Blanco de Paz ; Alarcon, the dramatist ; even the great Lope 
himself ; but the wildest surmise of all was that of the late 
Bawdon Brown, who put in a claim for the German scholar 
Gaspar Scoppe, or Scioppius, apparently because he was quar- 
relsome and happened to be in Spain about this time. 

Neither the question nor the book would ever have been 
heard of outside the circle of bookworms had Cervantes only 
behaved as Aleman did when his continuation of Guzman de 
Alfarache ” was forestalled by Juan Marti. But the persist- 
ence and the vehemence of his invective sent readers to the 
book who would otherwise never have troubled themselves 
about it. In its own day it fell dead from the press, for the 
second edition in 1615 mentioned by Ebert is purely imaginary. 
But Bias de Nasarre, an early specimen of a type of littera- 
teur now common, saw in Cervantes’ vituperation a sufficient 


xliv 


INTRODUCTION, 


reason for taking the book up and proving it meritorious; 
and this he did in an edition in 1732, in which he showed that 
it was on the whole a superior work to the genuine “ Don 
Quixote.’’ The originality of this view — not that it was 
original, for Le Sage had said much the . same — so charmed 
M. Germond de Lavigne that he produced in 1853 a French 
translation with a preface and notes, wherein he not only 
m-aintained that in humor, taste, invention, and truth to nature, 
Cervantes was surpassed by Avellaneda; but pointed out 
several passages to prove that he had borrowed ideas from a 
book that most likely did not exist at the time, and that most 
certainly he had not seen or heard of. All this of course is 
intelligible, but not so that a sound Spanish scholar and critic 
like the late Vicente Salva should have said, that if Cervantes’ 
“ Don Quixote ” were not in existence Avellaneda’s would be 
the best novel in the language ; which (not to speak of the 
absurdity of putting it before Lazarillo de Tormes,” “ Guz- 
man de Alfarache,” Quevedo’s Gran Tacano,” Isla’s “ Fray 
Gerundio de Campazas ”) is like saying that if there were no 
sun, the moon would be the brightest body in the heavens. 
Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he 
is too dull to reflect much. Dull and dirty ” will always be, 
I imagine, the verdict of the vast majority of unprejudiced 
readers. He is, at best, a poor plagiarist ; all he can do is to 
follow slavishly the lead given him by Cervantes ; his only 
humor lies in making Don Quixote take inns for castles and 
fancy himself some legendary or historical personage, and 
Sancho mistake words, invert proverbs, and display his 
gluttony ; all through he shows a proclivity to coarseness and 
dirt, and he has contrived to introduce two tales filthier than 
anything by the sixteenth century novellieri and without their 
sprightliness ; tales that even Le Sage and M. de Lavigne did 
not dare to reproduce as they found them. 

But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not 
forget the debt we owe them. But for them, there can be no 
doubt, Don Quixote ” would have come to us a mere torso 
instead of a complete work. Even if Cervantes had finished 
the volume he had in hand, most assuredly he would have left 
off with a promise of a Third Part, giving the further advent- 
ures of Don Quixote and humors of Sancho Panza as shep- 
herds. It is plain that he had at one time an intention of 
dealing with the pastoral romances as he had dealt with the 


CERVANTES, 


xlv 


books of chivalry, and but for Avellaneda he would have tried 
to carry it out. But it is more likely that, with his plans, and 
projects, and hopefulness, the volume would have remained 
unfinished till his death, and that we should have never made 
the acquaintance of the Duke and Duchess, or gone with 
Sancho to Barataria. 

From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to 
have been haunted by the fear that there might be more Ave- 
llanedas in the field, and putting everything else aside, he set 
himself to finish off his task and protect Don Quixote in the 
only way he could, by killing him. The conclusion is no 
doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece of work — the 
last chapter, indeed, is a curiosity of slovenly writing — and 
the frequent repetition of the scoldings administered to Ave- 
llaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome ; but it is, at any 
rate, a conclusion, and for that we must thank Avellaneda. 

The new volume was ready for the press in February, but 
was not printed till the very end of 1615, and during the inter- 
val Cervantes put together the comedies and interludes he had 
written within the last few years, and, as he adds plaintively, 
found no demand for among the managers, and published them 
with a preface, worth the book it introduces tenfold, in which 
he gives an account of the early Spanish stage, and of his own 
attempts as a dramatist. As for the interludes (entremeses) 
they are mere farcical scenes without any pretence to a plot, 
but not without a certain amount of life and humor. With 
regard to the comedies, the unanimity of opinion is remarkable. 
Every one seems to approach them with the hope of finding 
them not altogether unworthy of Cervantes, not altogether the 
poor productions the critics have pronounced them, and every 
reader is compelled in the end reluctantly to give them up, and 
own, in the words of M. Emile Chasles, that “ on se croirait a 
mille lieues du bon sens viril qui eclatera dans ^ Don Quichotte.’ ” 
^N'othing, perhaps, gives a better idea of their character and 
quality than that Bias de Nasarre, who published the second 
edition in 1749, should have, in perfect seriousness, advanced 
the theory that Cervantes wrote them with an object somewhat 
similar to that of Don Quixote,” in fact as burlesques upon 
the silly senseless plays of the day ; and indeed had the 
Bufian Dichoso ” been written forty years later there would 
be nothing primd facie absurd in supposing it a caricature of 
CalderoiTs mystic devotional dramas. It is needless to say 


xlviii 


INTRODUCTION. 


least that it was insensible to his merits, and left him to live 
in misery and die of want. To talk of his hard life and un- 
worthy employments in Andalusia is absurd. What had he 
done to distinguish him from thousands of other struggling 
men earning a precarious livelihood ? True, he was a gallant 
soldier, who had been wounded and had undergone captivity 
and suffering in his country’s cause, but there were hundreds 
of others in the same case. He had written a mediocre speci- 
men of an insipid class of romance, and some plays which 
manifestly did not comply with the primary condition of pleas- 
ing : were the playgoers to patronize plays that did not amuse 
them, because the author was to produce ^^Don Quixote” 
twenty years afterwards ? 

The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed 
immediately on the appearance of the book, does not look like 
general insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was received 
coldly by some, but if a man writes a book in ridicule of peri- 
wigs he must make his account with being coldly received b}* 
the periwig wearers and hated by the whole tribe of wig-makers. 
If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the sentiment- 
alists, the dramatists, and the poets of the period all against 
him, it was because “ Don Quixote ” was what it was ; and if 
the general public did not come forward to make him com- 
fortable for the rest of his days, it is no more to be charged 
with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking public 
that did not pay off Scott’s liabilities. It did the best it could ; 
it read his book and liked it and bought it, and encouraged the 
bookseller to pay him well for others. 

Another charge is that his fellow-countrymen have been so 
ca.reless of his memory that they have allowed his portraits 
to be lost. It is always assumed that there was once a por- 
trait of him painted by his friend Juan de Jauregui, but the 
words on which the assumption rests prove nothing of the 
kind. They imply nothing more than that Jauregui could or 
would paint a portrait of himself if asked to do so. There is 
even less ground for the supposition that Pacheco ever painted 
or drew his portrait, unless indeed we accept as satisfactory 
the arguments used by Don Jose-Maria Asensio y Toledo in 
support of that inserted by him in his “ Nuevos Documentos,” 
and reproduced in Sir W. Stirling Maxwell’s Don John of 
Austria ” and Mr. Gibson’s Journey to Parnassus.” But in 
truth they amount to nothing more than a chain of mere 


CERVANTES. 


xlix 


assumptions. It is an assumption that the manuscript on which 
the whole depends is a trustworthy document ; an assumption 
that the picture Senor Asensio has fixed on is the one the 
manuscript means ; and an assumption that the boatman he 
has fixed on in the picture is the portrait of Cervantes. 

On the other hand, there is, among others, the improbability 
of Pacheco painting a portrait of Cervantes as a boatman, 
with the full use of both hands, and about five-and-twenty 
years of age, Cervantes being thirty-three at the time of his 
release at Algiers (which is supposed to be the occasion repre- 
sented) and at least fifty-four at the time the picture was 
painted, if Pacheco was the painter. It Avill need a stronger 
case than this to establish a vera effigies of Cervantes.’ It is 
hardly necessary to remind the reader that the Spanish 
Academy picture from which the familiar engraved portrait 
is taken is now admitted on all hands to be a fabrication, 
based in all probability on the fancy portrait by Kent in 
Tonson’s Quixote ’’ of 1738. 

It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has 
erected no monument to the man she is proudest of ; no 
monument, that is to say, worthy of him ; for the bronze 
statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair 
work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been set up 
to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial town, 
is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has 
Cervantes of such weak witness of his name ; ’’ or what 
could monument do in his case except to testify to the self- 
glorification of those who had put it up ? Si monumentum 
queer is ^ circumspice. The nearest bookseller’s shop will show 
what bathos there would be in a monument to the author of 
“ Don Quixote.’’ 

* Senor Asensio’s case may be said, indeed, to break down in his last 
assumption. Where Cervantes was from the end of 1598 to the beginning 
of 1603 we know not; but all his biographers are agreed that he did not 
remain in Seville. But the commission to paint the six pictures, of which 
Senor Asensio’s is one, was only given to Vazquez and Pacheco in 1600, 
and no doubt they took some considerable time to paint. Cervantes, 
therefore, could not have sat for the head of the boatman. In the face 
of this difficulty, Senor Asensio assumes that Pacheco painted it from a 
portrait previously taken between 1590 and 1597. But, granted that 
Pacheco might have made Cervantes nearly thirty years younger in the 
picture, what motive could he have had for representing him as a young 
man of five or six and twenty in a sketch made, we are to suppose, as a 
memorial of his friend ? 

VoL. I.-d 


1 


INTRODUCTION. 


«DON QUIXOTE.’^ 

Nine editions of the First Part of Don Quixote ” had, as 
we have seen, already appeared before Cervantes died, thirty 
thousand copies in all, according to his own estimate, and a 
tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his death. Of 
the Second Part, five had been published by the middle of the 
same year. So large a number naturally supplied the demand 
for some time, but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted ; 
and from that time down to the present day the stream of edi- 
tions has continued to flow rapidly and regularly. The trans- 
lations show still more clearly in what request the book has 
been from the very outset. Shelton’s seems to have been made 
as early as 1607 or 1608 ; Oudin’s, the first French one, in 
1616 ; the first German in 1621, and Franciosini’s Italian 
version in 1622 ; so that in seven years from the completion 
of the work it had been translated into the four leading lan- 
guages of Europe. How translations and editions of transla- 
tions multiplied as time went on will be seen by a glance at 
the list given in the Appendix, necessarily incomplete as it is. 
Except the Bible, in fact, no book has been so widely diffused 
as Don Quixote.” The “ Imitatio Christi ” may have been 
translated into as many different languages, and perhaps 
‘^Bobinson Crusoe” and the Vicar of Wakefield” into nearly 
as many, but in multiplicity of translations and editions Don 
Quixote ” leaves them all far behind. 

Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion. 
“ Don Quixote ” has been thoroughly naturalized among people 
whose ideas about knight-errantry, if they had any at all, were 
of the vaguest, who had never seen or heard of a book of 
chivalry, who could not possibly feel the humor of the bur- 
lesque or sympathize with the author’s purpose. Another 
curious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the 
world, is one of the most intensely national. Manon Les- 
caut” is not more thoroughly French, ^^Tom Jones” not more 
English, Bob Boy ” not more Scotch, than Don Quixote ” is 
Spanish, in character, in ideas, in sentiment, in local color, in 
everything. What, then, is the secret of this unparalleled 
popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh three cen- 
turies ? One explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in 
the world, ^^Don Quixote” is the most catholic. There is 


DON Quixote:' 


li 


something in it for every sort of reader, yonng or old, sage oi 
simple, high or low. As Cervantes himself says with a touch 
of pride, It is thumbed and read and got by heart by people 
of all sorts; the children turn its leaves, the young people 
read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it,’^ 

But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more 
than its humor, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or 
knowledge of human nature it displays, has insured its success 
with the multitude, is the vein of farce that runs through it. 
It was the attack upon the sheep, the battle with the wine- 
skins, Mambrino’s helmet, the balsam of Fierabras, Don 
Quixote knocked over by the sails of the windmill, Sancho 
tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master 
and man, that were originally the great attraction, and per- 
haps are so still to some extent with the majority of readers. 
The bibliography of the book is a proof of this. There were 
ten editions of the First Part, but of the Second, where the 
humor is throughout much more akin to comedy than to farce, 
five only were printed. It is plain that Don Quixote was 
generally regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for a long 
time, as little more than a queer droll book, full of laughable 
incidents and absurd situations, very amusing, but not entitled 
to much consideration or care. All the editions printed in 
Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the famous printer Ibarra took 
it up, were mere trade editions, badly and carelessly printed 
on vile paper and got up in the style of chap-books intended 
only for popular use, with, in most instances, uncouth illustra- 
tions and clap-trap additions by the publisher. Those of 
Brussels and Antwerp were better in every way, neater and 
more careful, but still obviously books intended for a class of 
readers not disposed to be critical or fastidious so long as they 
were amused. 

To England belongs the credit of having been the first 
country to recognize the right of ^‘Don Quixote’^ to better 
treatment than this. The London edition of 1738, commonly 
called Lord Carteret’s from having been suggested by him, was 
not a mere edition de luxe. It produced Don Quixote ” in 
becoming form as regards paper and type, and embellished 
with plates which, if not particularly happy as illustrations, 
were at least well intentioned and well executed, but it also 
aimed at correctness of text, a matter to which nobody except 
the editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given 


lii 


INTRODUCTION. 


even a passing thought ; and for a first attempt it was fairly 
successful, for though some of its emendations are inadmissi- 
ble, a good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent 
editors. 

The example set was soon followed in the elegant duo- 
decimo editions Avith Coypel’s plates published at the Hague 
and Amsterdam, and later in those of Ibarra and Sancha in 
Spain. But the most notable results were the splendid 
edition in four volumes by the Spanish Boyal Academy in 
1780, and the Bev. John Bowie’s, printed at London and 
Salisbury in 1781. In the former a praiseworthy attempt was 
made to produce an authoritative text ; but unfortunately the 
editors, under the erroneous impression that Cervantes had 
either himself corrected La Cuesta’s 1608 edition of the First 
Part, or at least authorized its corrections, attached an excessive 
importance to emendations which in reality are entitled to no 
higher respect than those of any other printer. The distin- 
guishing feature of Bowie’s edition is the mass of notes, filling 
two A’olumes out of the six. Bowie’s industry, zeal, and erudi- 
tion have made his name deservedly venerated by all students 
of Don Quixote ; ” at the same time it must be owned that 
the practical value of his notes has been somewhat overrated. 
What they illustrate is not so much Don Quixote ” as the anno- 
tator’s extensive reading. The majority of them are intended 
to show the sources among the books of chivalry from which 
Cervantes took the incidents and ideas he burlesqued, and the 
connection is very often purely fanciful. They rendered an 
important service, however, in acting as a stimulus and fur- 
nishing a foundation for other commentaries ; as, for example, 
Pellicer’s, which, though it does not contain a fiftieth of the 
number of notes, is fifty times more valuable for any purpose 
of genuine elucidation, and Clemencin’s, that monument of 
industry, research, and learning, which has done more than all 
others put together to throw light upon the obscurities and 
clear away the difficulties of Don Quixote.” 

The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about 
a remarkable change of sentiment with regard to “Don 
Quixote.” A vast number of its admirers began to grow 
ashamed of laughing over it. It became almost a crime to 
treat it as a humorous book. The humor was not entirely de- 
nied, but, according to the new view, it was rated as an alto- 
gether secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than 


DON Quixote:' liii 

the stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes 
shot his philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he meant 
to shoot ; for on this point opinions varied. All were agreed, 
however, that the object he aimed at was not the books of 
chivalry. He said emphatically in the preface to the First 
Part and in the last sentence of the Second, that he had no 
other object in view than to discredit these books, and this, to 
advanced criticism, made it clear that his object must have 
been something else. 

One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting 
forth the eternal struggle between the ideal and the real, be- 
tween the spirit of poetry and the spirit of prose ; and per- 
haps German philosophy never evolved a more ungainly or 
unlikely camel out of the depths of its inner consciousness. 
Something of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be found in Don 
Quixote,’’ because it is to be found everywhere in life, and 
Cervantes drew from life. It is difficult to imagine a commu- 
nity in which the never-ceasing game of cross purposes between 
Sancho Panza and Don Quixote would not be recognized as 
true to nature. In the stone age, among the lake dwellers, 
among the cave men, there were Don Quixotes and Sancho 
Panzas ; there must have been the troglodyte who never could 
see the facts before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could see 
nothing else. But to suppose Cervantes deliberately setting 
himself to expound any such idea in two stout quarto volumes 
is to suppose something not only very unlike the age in which 
he lived, but altogether unlike Cervantes himself, who would 
have been the first to laugh at an attempt of the sort made by 
any one else. 

Another idea, which apparently had a strange fascination for 
some minds, was that there are deep political meaffings lying 
hidden under the drolleries of Don Quixote.” This, indeed, 
was not altogether of niodern growth. If we believed, what 
nobody believes now, the Buscapie to be genuine, some such 
notion would seem to have been current soon after the appear- 
ance of the book. At any rate Defoe, in the preface to the 
Serious Beflections of Kobinson Crusoe,” tells us that though 
thousands read “ Don Quixote ” without any suspicion of the 
fact, those who know the meaning of it know it to be an em- 
blematic history of, and a just satire upon, the Duke of Medina 
Sidonia.” That the Duke of Lerma ” was the original of 
‘‘ Don Quixote ” was a favorite theory with others who, we must 


liv 


INTRODUCTION, 


suppose, saw nothing improbable in the Archbishop of Toledo 
making a protege of the man that according to them had ridi- 
culed and satirized his brother. Other suggestions were that 
Cervantes meant Charles V., Philip II., Ignatius Loyola ; 
while those who were not prepared to go so far as to declare 
the whole book to be a political satire, applied their ingenuity 
to the discovery of allusions to the events and personages of 
the day in almost every incident of the story. It became, in 
short, a kind of pastime with literary idlers to go a niare’s- 
nesting in Don Quixote,” and hunt for occult significations 
in the bill of ass-colts delivered to Sancho Panza, the decision 
on the pack-saddle and basin question, the names and arms of 
the chieftains in the encounter with the sheep, or wherever the 
ordinary reader in his simplicity flattered himself that the 
author’s drift was unmistakable. In fact, to believe these 
scholiasts, Cervantes was the prince of cryptographers, and 
Don Quixote ” a tissue of riddles from beginning to end. 

The pursuit has evidently attractions inexplicable to the un- 
initiated, but perhaps its facility may have something to do 
with its charm, for in truth nothing is easier than to prove 
one’s self wiser than the rest of the world in this way. All 
that is necessary is to assert dogmatically that by A the 
author means B, and that when he says “ black ” he means 
“ white.” If some future commentator chooses to say that 
“ Pickwick ” is an emblematic history ” of Lord Melbourne ; 
that Jingle, with his versatility, audacity, and volubility, is 
meant for Lord Brougham ; Sam Weller for Sydney Smith, the 
faithful joker of the Whig party ; and Mr. Pickwick’s mishap 
on the ice for Lord Melbourne’s falling through from insuffi- 
cient support in 1834 ; and that he is a blockhead who offers 
to believe otherwise ; who shall say him nay ? It will be im- 
possible to confute him, save by calling up Charles Dickens 
from his grave in Westminster Abbey. 

According to others, there are philosophical ideas of a start 
ling kind to be found in abundance in “ Don Quixote ” by 
those who choose to look for them, ideas that show Cervantes 
to have been far in advance of his time. The precise nature 
of these ideas is in general rather vaguely intimated ; though, 
to be sure, in one instance it is claimed for Cervantes that he 
anticipated Descartes. “ Don Quixote,” it will be remembered, 
on awaking in the cave of Montesinos was at first doubtful of 
his own identity, but on feeling himself all over and observing 


*^DON Quixote:* Iv 

the collected thoughts that passed through his mind/’ he was 
convinced that he was himself and not a phantom, which, it 
has been urged plausibly, was in effect a practical application 
of the Cartesian Cogito, ergo sum.” But for the most part 
the expositors content themselves with the assertion that run- 
ning through Don Quixote ” there is a vein of satire aimed 
at the Church, dogma, sacerdotalism, and the Inquisition. 
This, of course, will at once strike most people as being ex- 
tremely unlikely. Cervantes wrote at about the most active 
period of the Inquisition, and if he ventured upon satire of 
this sort he would have been in the position of the reduced 
gentlewoman who was brought down to selling tarts in the 
street for a livelihood, and who used to say to herself every 
time she cried her wares, “ I hope to goodness nobody hears 
me.” 

There is, moreover, something very characteristic of nine- 
teenth century self-conceit in the idea that it was reserved for 
our superior intelligence to see what those poor, blind, stupid 
officers of the Inquisition could not perceive. Any one, how- 
ever, who, for instance, compares the original editions of 
Quevedo’s “ Visions ” with the authorized Madrid edition will 
see that these officials were not so very blind, but that on the 
contrary their eyes were marvellously keen to detect anything 
that had the slightest tincture of disrespect or irreverence. 
Nay, <^Don Quixote” itself is a proof of their vigilance, for 
three years after the Second Part had appeared they cut out 
the Duchess’s not very heterodox remark that works of charity 
done in a lukewarm way are of no avail. It may be said that 
Sancho’s observations upon the sham sambenito and mitre in 
chapter Ixix., Pai*t II., and Dapple’s return home adorned with 
them in chapter Ixxiii., are meant to ridicule the Inquisition ; 
but it is plain the Inquisition itself did not think so, and 
probably it was as good a judge as any one nowadays. 

For one passage capable of being tortured into covert 
satire against any of these things, there are ten in Don 
Quixote ” and the novels that show — what, indeed, is suffi- 
ciently obvious from the little we know of his life and char- 
acter — that Cervantes was a faithful son of the Church. As 
to his having been in advance of his age, the line he took up 
on the expulsion of the Moriscoes disposes of that assertion. 
Had he been the far-seeing philosopher and profound thinker 
the Cervantists strive to make him out, he would have looked 


INTRODUCTION. 


(vi 

■with contempt and disgust upon an agitation as stupid and 
childish as ever came of priestly bigotry acting on popular 
fanaticism and ignorance ; and if not moved by the barbarous 
cruelty of the measure, he would have been impressed by its 
mischievous consequences to his country, as all the best states- 
men of the day were. No loyal reader of his will believe 
for a moment that his vigorous advocacy of it was under- 
taken against his convictions and solely in order to please 
his patron, the leader of the movement. The truth is, no 
doubt, that in the Archbishop’s ante- chamber he heard over 
and over again all the arguments he has reproduced in 

Don Quixote ” and in the novel of the Colloquy of the 
Dogs,” and that his opinions, as opinions so often do, took 
their complexion from his surroundings. There is no reason 
to question his sincerity, but the less that is said of his 
philosophy and foresight the better. He was a philosopher 
in one and perhaps the best sense, for he knew how to 
endure the ills of life with philosophy; his knowledge of 
human nature was profound, his observation was marvellous ; 
but life never seems to have presented any mystery to him, or 
suggested any problem to his mind. 

It does not require much study of the literary history of the 
time, or finy profound critical examination of the work, to 
see that these elaborate theories and ingenious speculations 
are not really necessary to explain the meaning of Don 
Quixote ” or the purpose of Cervantes. The extraordinary 
influence of the romances of chivalry in his day is quite 
enough to account for the genesis of the book. 

Some idea of the prodigious development of this branch of 
literature in the sixteenth century may be obtained from 
the sketch given in the Appendix, if the reader bears in 
mind that only a portion of the romances belonging to by 
far the largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon 
the nation, there is abundant evidence. From the time when 
the Amadises and Palmerins began to grow popular down 
to the very end of the century, there is a steady stream of 
invective, from men whose character and position lend weight 
to their words, against the romances of chivalry and the infat- 
uation of their readers. It would be easy to fill a couple of 
pages with the complaints that were made of the mischief 
produced by the inordinate appetite for this kind of reading, 
especially among the upper classes, who, unhappily for them- 


DON QUIXOTEN 


Ivii 


selves and their country, had only too much time for such 
pursuits under the rule of Charles V. and his successors. As 
Pedro Mexia, the chronicler of Charles V. puts it, there were 
many who had brought themselves to think in the very style 
of the books they read, books of which might often be said, 
and with far more truth, what Ascham said of the Morte 
d^ Arthur,’’ that the whole pleasure standeth in two speciall 
poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold bawdrye.” 

Ticknor, in his second volume, cited some of the most nota- 
ble of these predecessors of Cervantes ; but one not mentioned 
by him, or, so far as I am aware, by any other writer on the 
subject, may be quoted here as having been perhaps the im- 
mediate predecessor of, and using language curiously like that 
in, Don Quixote.” I mean Fray Juan de Tolosa, who says 
he wrote his fantastically entitled religious treatise, the 

Aran juez del Alma ” (Saragossa, 1589), in order to “drive 
out of our Spain that dust-cloud of books of chivalries, as they 
call them (of knaveries, as I call them), that blind the eyes of 
all who, not reflecting upon the harm they are doing their 
souls, give themselves up to them, and waste the best part of 
the year in striving to learn whether Don Belianis of Greece 
took the enchanted castle, or whether Don Florisel de Niquea, 
after all his battles, celebrated the marriage he was bent 
upon.” Good Fray Juan did not choose the right imple- 
ment. Pidicule was the only besom to sweep away that dust. 

That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he 
had ample provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently 
clear to those who look into the evidence; as it will be also 
that it was not chivalry itself that he attaclced and swept away. 
Of all the absurdities that, thanks to poetry, will be repeated to 
the end of time, there is no greater one than saying that “ Cer- 
vantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away.” In the first place there 
was no chivalry for him to smile away. Spain’s chivalry had 
been dead for more than a century. Its work was done when 
Granada fell, and as chivalry was essentially republican in its 
nature, it could not live under the rule that Ferdinand substi- 
tuted for the free institutions of mediaeval Spain. What he 
did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery of 
it ; it would be just as reasonable to say that England’s chiv- 
alry was smiled away by the ridicule showered in “ Punch ” 
upon the men in block-tin who ride in the Lord Mayor’s Show. 

The true nature of the “ right arm ” and the “ bright array,” 


Iviii 


INTRODUCTION, 


before wliich, according to the poet, the world gave ground,’’ 
and which Cervantes’ single laugh demolished, may be gathered 
from the words of one of his own countrymen, Don Felix 
Pacheco, as reported by Captain George Carleton, in his 
Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713.”^ Before the ap- 
pearance in the world of that labor of Cervantes,” he said, 
it is next to an impossibility for a man to walk the streets 
with any delight or without danger. There were seen so many 
cavaliers prancing and curvetting before the windows of their 
mistresses, that a stranger would have imagined the whole 
nation to have been nothing less than a race of knight-errants. 
But after the world became a little acquainted with that nota- 
ble history, the man that was seen in that once celebrated 
drapery was pointed at as a Don Quixote, and found himself 
the jest of high and low. And I verily believe that to this, 
and this only, we owe that dampness and poverty of spirit 
which has run through all our councils for a century past, so 
little agreeable to those nobler actions of our famous ances- 
tors.” 

To call Don Quixote ” a sad book, preaching a pessimist 
view of life, argues a total misconception of its drift. It 
would be so if its moral were that, in this world, true enthu- 
siasm naturally leads to ridicule and discomfiture. But it 
preaches nothing of the sort; its moral, so far as it can be 
said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that is born 
of vanity and self-conceit, that is made an end in itself, not a 
means to an end, and that acts on mere impulse, regardless of 
circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its owner, 
and a very considerable nuisance to the community at large. 
To those who cannot distinguish between the one kind and the 
other, no doubt Don Quixote ” is a sad book ; no doubt to 
some minds it is very sad that a man who had just uttered so 
beautiful a sentiment as that it is a hard case to make slaves 
of those whom God and Nature made free,” should be ungrate- 
fully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let 
loose on society ; but to others of a more judicial cast it will 
be a matter of regret that reckless self-sufficient enthusiasm 
is not oftener requited in some such way for all the mischief 
it does in the world. 

^ This book, it may be as well to remind some readers, is not, as it is 
still often described, one of Defoe’s novels, but the genuine experiences 
of an English officer in Spain during the Succession War. 


DON Quixote:^ lix 

A very slight examination of the structure of Don 
Quixote’^ will suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep 
design or elaborate plan in his mind when he began the book. 
When he wrote those lines in which with a few strokes of a 
gi'eat master he sets before us the pauper gentleman/’ he had 
no idea of the goal to which his imagination was leading him. 
There can be little doubt that all he contemplated was a short 
tale to range with those he had already written — “ E-inconete 
and Cortadillo,” The Generous Lover,” The Adventures of 
Cardenio and Dorothea,” the Ill-advised Curiosity,” The 
Captive’s Story ” — a tale setting forth the ludicrous results 
that might be expected to follow the attempt of a crazy gen- 
tleman to act the part of a knight-errant in modern life. 

It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter 
into the original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him 
he certainly would not have omitted him in his hero’s outfit, 
which he obviously meant to be complete. Him we owe to the 
landlord’s chance remark in chapter iii. that knights seldom 
travelled without squires. It is needless to point out the dif- 
ference this implies. To try to think of a Don Quixote without 
Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a one-bladed pair of 
scissors. 

The story was written at first, like the others, without any 
division, as may be seen by the beginnings and endings of the 
first half-dozen chapters; and without the intervention of Cid 
Hamet Benengeli ; and it seems not unlikely that Cervantes 
had some intention of bringing Dulcinea, or Aldonza Lorenzo, 
on the scene in person. It was probably the ransacking of the 
Don’s library and the discussion on the books of chivalry that 
first suggested it to him that his idea was capable of develop- 
ment. What, if instead of a mere string of farcical misad- 
ventures, he were to make his tale a burlesque of one of these 
books, caricaturing their style, incidents, and spirit ? 

In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and some- 
what clumsily divided what he had written into chapters on 
the model of Amadis,” invented the fable of a mysterious 
Arabic manuscript, and set up Cid Hamet Benengeli in imita- 
tion of the almost invariable practice of the chivalry-romance 
authors, who were fond of tracing their books to some recondite 
source. In working out the new idea, he soon found the value 
of Sancho Panza. Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho’s 
part, but to the whole book, is struck in the first words Sancho 


lx 


INTRODUCTION. 


utters when he announces his intention of taking his ass with 
him. About the ass,” we are told, Don Quixote hesitated 
a little, trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant 
taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back ; but no in- 
stance occurred to his memory.” We can see the whole scene 
at a glance, the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho and the per- 
plexity of his master, upon whose perception the incongruity 
has just forced itself. This is Sancho’s mission throughout 
the book; he is an unconscious Mephistopheles, always un- 
wittingly making mockery of his master’s aspirations, always 
exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some unintentional ad 
absurdum, always bringing him back to the world of fact and 
commonplace by force of sheer stolidity. 

The burlesque, it will be observed, is not steadily kept up 
even throughout the First Part. Cervantes seems, as in fact 
he confesses in the person of Cid Hamet in chapter xliv. of 
the Second Part, to have grown weary before long of the re- 
strictions it imposed upon him, and to have felt it, as he says 
himself, “ intolerable drudgery to go on writing on one sub- 
ject,” chronicling the sayings and doings of the same two 
characters. It is plain that, as is often the case with persons 
of sanguine temperament, sustained effort was irksome to him. 
For thirty years he had contemplated the completion of the 
Galatea,” unable to bring himself to set about it. He had 
the “ Persiles,” which he looked upon as his best work — in 
prose at least — an equal length of time on his hands. The 
Second Part of Don Quixote ” he wrote in a very desultory 
fashion, putting it aside again and again to turn to something 
else. And when he made an end, it was always a hasty one. 
Each part of ‘‘Don Quixote” he finishes off with a wild 
flourish, and seems to fling down his pen with a “ whoop ” 
like a schoolboy at the end of a task he has been kept in for. 
Even the “ Viaje del Parnaso,” a thing entered upon and 
written con amore, he ends abruptly as if he had gut tired of it. 

It was partly for this reason, as he himself admits, that he 
inserted the story of “ Cardenio and Dorothea,” that with the 
untranslatable title which I have ventured to call the “Ill- 
advised Curiosity,” and “ The Captive’s Story,” that fill up 
the greater part of the last half of the volume, as well as the 
“ Chrysostom and Marcela ” episode in the earlier chapters. 
But of course there were other reasons. He had these stories 
ready written, and it seemed a good way of disposing of them. 


''DON QUIXOTEN Ixi 

It is by no means unlikely that he mistrusted his own powers 
of extracting from Don Quixote and Sancho material enough 
to fill a book ; but above all it is likely he felt doubtful of his 
venture. It was an experiment in literature far bolder than 
Lazarillo de Tonnes ’’ or Guzman de Alfarache ; ” he could 
not tell how it would be received ; and it was ^s well, there- 
fore, to provide his readers with something of the sort they 
were used to, as a kind of insurance against total failure. 

The event did not justify his diffidence. The public, he 
acknowledges, skimmed the tales hastily and impatiently, 
eager to return to the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho ; 
and the public has ever since done much the same. He him- 
self owns that they are altogether out of place, and nothing 
but the natural reluctance of editors and translators to muti- 
late a great classic has preserved them, for in truth they are 
not only out of place, but positive blemishes. An exception 
might be made in favor of the story of the Captive, which 
has an interest in itself independent of the autobiographical 
touches it contains, and is in the main told in a straightfor- 
ward soldierly way. 

But the others have nothing to recommend them. They are 
commonplace tales of intrigue that might have been written 
by any tenth-rate story-teller. With a certain pretence of 
moral purpose, the Ill-advised Curiosity ” is a nauseous story, 
and the morality of Dorothea’s story is a degree worse than 
that of Bichardson’s Pamela ; ” it is, in fact, a story of easy 
virtue rewarded.” The characters are utterly uninteresting; 
the men, Cardenio and Don Fernando, Anselmo and Lothario, 
are a contemptible set ; and the women are remarkable for noth- 
ing but a tendency to swoon away on slight provocation, and 
to make long speeches the very adjectives of which would be 
enough for a strong man. The reader will observe the differ- 
ence between the Dorothea of the tale and the graceful, 
sprightly, natural Dorothea who acts the part of the Princess 
Micomicona with such genuine gayety and fun. 

But it is in style that these tales offend most of all. They 
are not worth telling, and they are told at three times the 
length that would have been allowable if they were. No 
device known to prolixity is omitted. Verbs and adjectives 
always go in pairs like panniers on a donkey, as if one must 
inevitably fall to the ground without the other to balance it. 
Nobody ever says or sees anything, he always declares and 


ixii 


INTRODUCTION. 


asserts it, or perceives and discerns it. If a thing is beautifuJ 
it must likewise be lovely, and nothing can be odious without 
being detestable too ; though as a rule adjectives are seldom 
used but in the superlative degree. Everything is said with 
as much circumlocution and rodomontade as possible, as if the 
lavish expenditure of words were the great object. And yet, 
following immediately upon these tawdry artificial productions, 
we have the charming little episode of Don Luis and Dona 
Clara, as if Cervantes wished to show that when he chose he 
could write a love story in a simple, natural style. 

The latter portion of the First Part is, in short, almost all 
episodes and digressions ; no sooner are the tales disposed of, 
than we have the long criticism on the chivalry romances and 
the drama, interesting and valuable no doubt, but still just as 
much out of place, and that is followed by the goat-herd’s 
somewhat pointless story. 

By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his 
hands, and summoned up resolution enough to set about the 
Second Part in earnest, the case was very much altered. Don 
Quixote and Sancho Panza had not merely found favor, but 
had already become, what they have never since ceased to be, 
veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was no 
occasion for him now to interpolate extraneous matter ; nay, 
his readers told him plainly that what they wanted of him 
was more Don Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not novels, 
tales, or digressions. To himself, too, his creations had be- 
come realities, and he had become proud of them, especially 
of Sancho. He began the Second Part, therefore, under very 
different conditions, and the difference makes itself manifest 
at once. Even in translation the style will be seen to be far 
easier, more flowing, more natural, and more like that of a 
man sure of himself and of his audience. Don Quixote and 
Sancho undergo a change also. In the First Part, Don Quixote 
has no character or individuality whatever. He is nothing 
more than a crazy representative of the sentiments of the chiv- 
alry romances. In all that he says and does he is simply 
repeating the lesson he has learned from his books ; and there- 
fore, as Hallam with perfect justice maintains, it is absurd 
to speak of him in the gushing strain of the sentimental 
critics when they dilate upon his nobleness, disinterestedness, 
dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the business of a 
knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succor the 


Ixiii 


QaiXOTB'* 


distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes his busi- 
ness when he takos up the part ; a knight-errant was bound to 
be intrepid, and so he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all 
Byron’s melodious nonsense about Don Quixote, the most non- 
sensical statement is that ’t is his virtue makes him mad ! ” 
The exact opposite is the truth ; it is his madness makes him 
virtuous. 

In this respect he remains unchanged in the Second Part ; 
but at the same time Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, 
as if it was a point upon which he was anxious there should 
be no mistake, that his hero’s madness is strictly confined to 
delusions on the subject of chivalry, and that on every other 
subject he is “ discrete,” one, in fact, v,rhose faculty of discern- 
ment is in perfect order. He thus invests Don Quixote with a 
dignity which was wholly wanting to him in the First Part, 
and at the same time reserves to himself the right of making 
him speak and act not only like a man of sense, but like a 
man of exceptionally clear and acute mind, whenever it may 
become desirable to travel outside the limits of the burlesque. 
The advantage of this is that he is enabled to make use of 
Don Quixote as a mouthpiece for his own reflections, and so, 
without seeming to digress, allow himself the relief of digres- 
sion when he requires it, as freely as in a commonplace book. 

It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don 
Quixote is not very great. There are some natural touches of 
character about him, such as his mixture of irascibility and 
placability, and his curious affection for Sancho, together with 
his impatience of the squire’s loquacity and impertinence; 
but in the main, apart from his craze, he is little more than a 
thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with instinctive good taste and 
a great deal of shrewdness and originality of mind. 

As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the 
preface to the First Part, that he was a favorite with his crea- 
tor even before he had loeen taken into favor by the public. 
An inferior genius, taking him in hand a second time, would 
very likely have tried to improve him by making him more 
comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes was too 
true an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he 
re-appears, is the old Sancho with the old familiar features ; 
but with a difference ; they have been brought out more dis- 
tinctly, but at the same time with a careful avoidance of any- 
thing like caricature; the outline has been filled in where 


ixiv 


INTRODUCTION. 


filling in was necessary, and, vivified by a few touches of a 
master’s hand, Sancho stands before us as he might in a char- 
acter portrait by Velazquez. He is a much more important 
and prominent figure in the Second Part than in the First ; 
indeed it is his matchless mendacity about Dulcinea that to a 
great extent supplies the action of the story. 

His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any 
other. In the First Part he displays a great natural gift of 
lying, as may be seen in his explanation of Don Quixote’s 
bi*uises in chapter xvi., and above all in that marvellous series 
of lies he strings together in chapter xxxi. in answer to Don 
Quixote’s questions about Dulcinea. His lies are not of the 
highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly indulge 
in ; like Falstaff’s, they resemble the father that begets them ; 
they are simple, homely, plump lies ; plain working lies, in 
short. But in the service of such a master as Don Quixote he 
develops rapidly, as we see when he comes to palm off the 
three country wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting. 
It is worth noticing how, fiushed by his success in this in- 
stance, he is tempted afterwards to try a fiight beyond his 
powers in his account of the journey on Clavileno. 

In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents 
of the chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. 
Enchantments of the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and 
the Trifaldi and the cave of Montesinos play a leading part in 
the later and inferior romances, and another distinguishing 
feature is caricatured in Don Quixote’s blind adoration of Dul- 
cinea. In the romances of chivalry love is either a mere ani- 
malism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man 
would care to make merry with the former, but to one of Cer- 
vantes’ humor the latter was naturally an attractive subject 
for ridicule. Like everything else in these romances, it is a 
gross exaggeration of the real sentiment of chivalry, but its 
peculiar extravagance is probably due to the influence of those 
masters of hyperbole, the Provencal poets. When a trouba- 
dour professed his readiness to obey his lady in all things, he 
made it incumbent upon the next comer, if he wished to avoid 
the imputation of tameness and commonplace, to declare him- 
self the slave of her will, which the next was compelled to cap 
by some still stronger declaration ; and so expressions of devo- 
tion went on rising one above the other like biddings at an 
auction, and a conventional language of gallantry and theory 


“ DON QUIXOTE^ Ixv 

of love came into being that in time permeated the literature 
of Southern Europe, and bore fruit, in one direction in the 
transcendental worship of Beatrice and Laura, and in another 
in the grotesque idolatry which found exponents in writers like 
Feliciano de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with in Don 
Quixote’s passion for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he car- 
ried out the burlesque more happily. By keeping Dulcinea in 
the background, and making her a vague shadowy being of 
whose very existence we are left in doubt, he invests Don 
Quixote’s worship of her virtues and charms with an additional 
extravagance, and gives still more point to the caricature of 
the sentiment and language of the romances. 

There will always be a difference of opinion as to the rela- 
tive merits of the First and Second Parts of Don Quixote.” 
As naturally follows from the difference in aim between the 
two Parts, the First is the richer in laughable incidents, the 
Second in character ; and the First will always be the favorite 
with those whose taste leans to humor of a farcical sort, while 
the Second will have the preference with those who incline to 
the humor of comedy. Another reason why the Second Part 
has less of the purely ludicrous element in it is that Cervantes, 
having a greater respect for his hero, is more careful of his 
personal dignity. In the interests of the story he has to allow 
Don Quixote to be made a butt of to some extent, but he 
spares him the cudgellings and cuffings which are the usual 
finale of the poor gentleman’s adventures in the First Part. 

There can be no question, however, as to the superiority of 
the Second Part in style and construction. It is one of the 
commonplaces of criticism to speak of Don Quixote ” as if 
it were a model of Spanish prose, but in truth there is no 
work of note in the language that is less deserving of the title. 
There are of course various styles in Don Quixote.” Don 
Quixote’s own language (except when he loses his temper 
with Sancho) is most commonly modelled on that of the 
romances of chivalry, and many of the descriptive passages, 
like those about the sun appearing on the balconies of the 
east, and so forth, are parodies of the same. I have already 
spoken of the wearisome verbosity of the inserted novels, but 
the narrative portions of the book itself, especially in the 
First Part, are sometimes just as long-winded and wordy. In 
both the style reminds one somewhat of that of the euphuists, 
and of their repugnance to saying anything in a natural way, 

VoL. I.— e 


Ixvi 


INTRODUCTION, 


and their love of cold conceits and verbal quibbles. These 
were the besetting sins of the prose of the day, but Cervantes 
has besides sins of his own to answer for. He was a careless 
writer at all times, but in Don Quixote ’’ he is only too 
often guilty of downright slovenliness. The word is that of 
his compatriot and stanch admirer Clemencin, or I should 
not venture to use it, justifiable as it may be in the case of a 
writer who deals in long sentences staggering down the page 
on a multiplicity of ands,’^ or working themselves into tan- 
gles of parentheses, sometimes parenthesis within parenthe- 
sis ; who begins a sentence one way and ends it another ; who 
sends relatives adrift without any antecedent to look to ; who 
mixes up nominatives, verbs, and pronouns in a way that 
would have driven a Spanish Cobbett frantic. Here is an 
example of a very common construction in Don Quixote : ” 
The host stood staring at him, and entreated with him that 
he would rise ; but he never would until he had to tell him 
that he granted him the boon he begged of him.” Here, as 
Cobbett would have said, is perfect confusion and pell-mell,” 
though no doubt the meaning is clear. 

Nor are his laxaties of this sort only; his grammar is very 
often lax, he repeats words and names out of pure heedless- 
ness, and he has a strange propensity to inversion of ideas, and 
a curious tendency to say the very opposite of what he meant 
to say. His blind worshippers, with whom it is an axiom 
that he can do no wrong, make an odd apology for some of 
these slips. They are only his fun, they say ; in which case 
Cervantes must have written with a prophetic eye to the 
friends of Mr. Peter Magnus, for assuredly no others of the 
sons of men would be amused by such means. 

But besides these two, there is what we may call Cervantes’ 
own style, that into which he falls naturally when he is not 
imitating the romances of chivalry, or under any unlucky 
impulse in the direction of fine-writing. It is almost the 
exact opposite of the last. It is a simple, unaffected, collo- 
quial style, not indeed a model of correctness, or distinguished 
by any special grace or elegance, for Cervantes always wrote 
hastily and carelessly, but a model of clear, terse, vigorous 
expression. To an English reader, Swift’s style will, per- 
haps, convey the best idea of its character ; at the same time, 
though equally matter-of-fact, it has more vivacity than 
Swift’s. 


DON Q UIXO TEr lx vii 

This is the prevailing style of the Second Part, which is 
cast in the dramatic form to a much greater extent than the 
Pirst, consisting, indeed, largely of dialogue between master 
and man, or of Don Quixote’s discourses and Sancho’s inimi- 
table comments thereon. Episodes, Cid Hamet tells us, have 
been sparingly introduced, and he adds significantly, with 
no more words than suffice to make them intelligible,” as if 
even then the verbosity of the novels had proved too much 
for some of the readers of the First Part. The assertion, 
however, is scarcely borne out by the fair Claudia’s story 
in chapter lx., or that prodigious speech which Ana Felix 
delivers with the rope round her neck in chapter Ixiii. 

It may be, as Hallam says, that in the incidents of the 
Second Part there is not the same admirable probability 
there is in those of the First ; though what could be more 
delightfully probable than the sequel of Sancho’s unlucky 
purchase of the curds in chapter xvii. for example ? But 
it must be allowed that the Second Part is constructed 
with greater art, if the word can be applied to a story 
so artless. The result of Sancho’s audacious imposture at 
El Toboso, for instance, its consequences to himself in the 
matter of the enchantment of Dulcinea and the penance 
laid upon him, his shifts and shirkings, and Don Quixote’s 
insistence in season and out of season, are a masterpiece of 
comic intrigue. Not less adroit is the way in which encour- 
agement is doled out to master and man from time to time, 
to keep them in heart. Even wdth all due allowance for 
the infatuation of Don Quixote and the simplicity and cu- 
pidity of Sancho, to represent them as holding out under 
an unbroken course of misfortune would have been untrue 
to human nature. The victory achieved in such knightly 
fashion over the Biscayan, supports Don Quixote under all 
the disasters that befall him in the First Part; and in the 
Second his success against the Knight of the Mirrors, and 
in the adventure with the lion, and his reception as a knight- 
errant by the Duke and Duchess, serve to confirm him in 
his idea of his powers and vocation. Material support was 
still more needful in Sancho’s case. It is plain that a pro- 
spective island would not have kept his faith in chivalry alive, 
had it not been for the treasure-trove of the Sierra Morena 
and the flesh-pots of Camacho’s wedding. 

One of the great merits of Don Quixote,” and one of the 


Ixviii 


INTRODUCTION, 


qualities that have secured its acceptance by all classes of 
readers and made it the most cosmopolitan of books, is its sim- 
plicity. As Samson Carrasco says, There ’s nothing in it to 
puzzle over.” The bachelor’s remark, however, cannot be taken 
literally, else there would be an impertinence in notes and 
commentaries. There are, of course, points obvious enough 
to a Spanish seventeenth-century audience which do not im- 
mediately strike a reader nowadays, and Cervantes often takes 
it for granted that an allusion will be generally understood 
which is only intelligible to a few. For example, on many of 
his readers in Spain, and most of his readers out of it, the 
significance of his choice of a country for his hero is com- 
pletely lost. It would be going too far to say that no one can 
thoroughly comprehend Don Quixote ” without having seen 
La Mancha, but undoubtedly even a glimpse of La Mancha will 
give an insight into the meaning of Cervantes such as no com- 
mentator can give. Of all the regions of Spain it is the last 
that would suggest the idea of romance. Of all the dull cen- 
tral plateau of the Peninsula it is the dullest tract. There is 
something impressive about the grim solitudes of Estrema- 
dura ; and if the plains of Leon and Old Castile are bald and 
dreary, they are studded with old cities renowned in story 
and rich in relics of the past. But there is no redeeming 
feature in the Manchegan landscape ; it has all the sameness 
of the desert without its dignity ; the few towns and villages 
that break its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is 
nothing venerable about them, they have not even the pict- 
uresqueness of poverty; indeed, Don Quixote’s own village, 
Argamasilla, has a sort of oppressive respectability in the prim 
regularity of its streets and houses ; everything is ignoble ; 
the very windmills are the ugliest and shabbiest of the wind- 
mill kind. 

To any one who knew the country well, the mere style and 
title of “ Don Quixote of La Mancha ” gave the key to the 
author’s meaning at once. La Mancha as the knight’s country 
and scene of his chivalries is of a piece with the pasteboard 
helmet, the farm-laborer on ass-back for a squire, knighthood 
conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts taken for victims of 
oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don 
Quixote’s world and the world he lived in, between things as 
he saw them and things as they were. 

It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the 


DON Quixote:^ 


Ixix 


whole humor and purpose of the book, should have been so 
little heeded by the majority of those who have undertaken to 
interpret Don Quixote.” It has been completely overlooked, 
for example, by the illustrators. To be sure, the great major- 
ity of the artists who illustrated Don Quixote ” knew noth- 
ing whatever of Spain. To them a venta conveyed no idea but 
the abstract one of a roadside inn, and they could not therefore 
do full justice to the humor of Don Quixote’s misconception 
in taking it for a castle, or perceive the remoteness of all its 
realities from his ideal. But even when better informed they 
seem to have no apprehension of the full force of the discre- 
pancy. Take, for instance, Gustave Dore’s drawing of Don 
Quixote watching his armor in the inn-yard. Whether or not 
the Venta de Quesada on the Seville road is, as tradition main- 
tains, the inn described in “ Don Quixote,” beyond all question 
it was just such an inn-yard as the one behind it that Cervan- 
tes had in his mind’s eye, and it was on just such a rude stone 
trough as that beside the primitive draw-well in the corner 
that he meant Don Quixote to deposit his armor. Gustave 
Dore makes it an elaborate fountain such as no arriero ever 
watered his mules at in the corral of any venta in Spain, and 
thereby entirely misses the point aimed at by Cervantes. It 
is the mean, prosaic, commonplace character of all the sur- 
roundings and circumstances that gives a significance to Don 
Quixote’s vigil and the ceremony that follows. Gustave Dore 
might as well have turned La Tolosa and La Molinera into 
village maidens of the opera type in ribbons and roses. 

No humor suffers more from this kind of treatment than 
that of Cervantes. Of that finer and more delicate humor 
through which there runs a thread of pathos he had but little, 
or, it would be fairer to say, shows but little. There are few 
indications in Don Quixote ” or the novelas of the power 
that produced that marvellous scene in Lazarillo de Tormes,” 
where the poor hidalgo paces the patio, watching with his 
hungry eyes his ragged little retainer munching the crusts and 
cowheel. Cervantes’ humor is for the most part of that broader 
and simpler sort, the strength of which lies in the perception 
of the incongruous. It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his 
ways, words, and works, with the ideas and aims of his master, 
quite as much as the wonderful vitality and truth to nature of 
the character, that makes him the most humorous creation in 
the whole range of fiction. 


Ixx 


INTRODUCTION. 


That unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was the first great 
master, Cervantes’ serious air,” which sits naturally on Swift 
alone, perhaps, of later humorists, is essential to this kind of 
humor, and here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands of 
his interpreters. Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery 
of Phillips, could be more out of place in an attempt to rep- 
resent Cervantes, than a flippant, would-be facetious style, 
like that of Motteux’s version for example, or the sprightly, 
jaunty air, French translators sometimes adopt. It is the grave 
matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the apparent uncon- 
sciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous, 
anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar 
flavor to the humor of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact 
opposite of the humor of Sterne and the self-conscious humorist. 
Even when Uncle Toby is at his best, you are always aware of 
the man Sterne ” behind him, watching you over his shoulder 
to see what effect he is producing. Cervantes always leaves you 
alone with Don Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the 
great humorists always keep themselves out of sight, or, more 
properly speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike 
our latter-day school of humorists, who seem to have revived 
the old horse-collar method, and try to raise a laugh by some 
grotesque assumption of ignorance, imbecility. Or bad taste. 

It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humor in any 
other language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a 
natural gravity and a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it 
ever so colloquial, that make an absurdity doubly absurd, and 
give plausibility to the most preposterous statement. This is 
what makes Sancho Panza’s drollery the despair of the consci- 
entious translator. Sancho’s curt comments can never fall flat, 
but they lose half their flavor when transferred from their 
native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners 
have failed to do justice to the humor of Cervantes, they are 
no worse than his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for 
the Spanish peasant’s hearty relish of “ Don Quixote,” one 
might be tempted to think that the great humorist was not 
looked upon as a humorist at all in his own country. Any 
one knowing nothing of Cervantes, and dipping into the exten- 
sive exegetical literature that has grown up of late years 
round him and his works, would infallibly carry away the idea 
that he was one of the most obscure writers that ever spoiled 
paper, that if he had a meaning his chief endeavor was ta 


DON QUIXOTE.'^ 


Ixxi 


keep it to himself, and that whatever gifts he may have pos- 
sessed, humor was most certainly not one of them. 

The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have 
communicated itself to his critics, making them see things 
that are not in the book, and run full tilt at phantoms that 
have no existence save in their own imaginations. Like a 
good many critics nowadays, they forget that screams are not 
criticism, and that it is only vulgar tastes that are influenced 
by strings of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and pompous 
epithets. But what strikes one as particularly strange is that 
while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all man- 
ner of imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show 
no perception of the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred 
of his readers would rate highest in him, and hold to be the 
one that raises him above all rivalry. If they are not actu- 
ally insensible to his humor, they probably regard it as a 
quality which their own dignity as well as his will not allow 
them to recognize, and I am inclined to suspect that this feel- 
ing has as much to do with their bitterness against Clemencin, 
as his temerity in venturing to point out faults in the god of 
their idolatry. Clemencin, if not the only one, is one of the 
few Spanish critics or commentators who show a genuine and 
hearty enjoyment of the humor of ^^Don Quixote.^^ Again 
and again, as he is growling over Cervantes’ laxities of 
grammar and construction, he has to lay down his pen, and 
wipe his eyes that are brimming over at some drollery or 
naivete of Sancho’s, and it may well be that this frivolous 
behavior is regar4ed with the utmost contempt by men so 
intensely in earnest as the Cervantistas. 

To speak of Don Quixote ” as if it were merely a humor- 
ous book, would be a manifest misdescription. Cervantes, at 
times, makes it a kind of commonplace book for occasional 
essays and criticisms, or for the observations and reflec- 
tions and gathered wisdom of a long and stirring life. It is a 
mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human nature. 
Among modern novels there may be, here and there, more 
elaborate studies of character, but there is no book richer in 
individualized character. What Coleridge said of Shake- 
speare in minimis is true of Cervantes ; he never, even for 
the most temporary purpose, puts forward a lay figure. 
There is life and individuality in all his characters, however 
little they may have to do, or however short a time they may 


Ixxii 


INTRODUCTION. 


be before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate, Teresa 
Panza, Altisidora, even the two students met on the road to 
the cave of Montesinos, all live and move and have their 
being ; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of Cer- 
vantes that there is not a hateful one among them all. Even 
poor Maritornes, with her deplorable morals, has a kind heart 
of her own and some faint and distant resemblance to a 
Christian about her ; and as for Sancho, though on dissection 
we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort of 
doglike affection for his master, who is there that in his heart 
does not love him ? 

But it is, after all, the humor of Don Quixote that dis- 
tinguishes it from all other books of the romance kind. It is 
this that makes it, as one of the most judicial-minded of 
modern critics calls it, the best novel in the world beyond 
all comparison.” ^ It is its varied humor, ranging from broad 
farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare’s or Moliere’s, that 
has naturalized it in every country where there are readers, and 
made it a classic in every language that has a literature. 

We are sometimes told that classics have had their day, and 
that the literature of the future means to shake itself loose 
from the past, and respect no antiquity and recognize no prec- 
edent. Will the coming iconoclasts spare Don Quixote,” or 
is Cervantes doomed, with Homer and Dante, Shakespeare and 
Moliere ? So far as a forecast is possible, it seems clear that 
their humor will not be his humor. Even now, persons who 
take their idea of humor from that form of it most commonly 
found between yellow and red boards on a railway book-stall 
may be sometimes heard to express a doubt about the humor 
of Don Quixote,” and the sincerity of those who profess to 
enjoy it, they themselves being, in their own phrase, unable to 
see any fun in it. The humor of Don Quixote ” has, how- 
ever, the advantage of being based upon human nature, and as 
the human nature of the future will probably be, upon the 
whole, much the same the human nature of the past, it is, 
perhaps, no unreasonable supposition that what has been 
relished for its truth may continue to find some measure of 
acceptance. 

If it be not presumptuous to express any solicitude about 

H am going through Don Quixote again, and admire it more than 
ever. It is certainly the best novel in the world beyond all comparison. 
— Macaulay, Life and Letters. 


Ixxiii 


**DON Quixote:' 

the future, let us hope so ; for, it must be owned, its prophets 
do not encourage the idea that liveliness will be among its 
characteristics. The humor of Cervantes may have its uses 
too, even in that advanced state of society. The future, 
doubtless, will be great and good and wise and virtuous, but 
being still human, it will have its vanities and self-conceits, 
its shams, humbugs, and impostures, even as we have, or 
haply greater than ours, for everything, we are told, will be 
on a scale of which we have no conception ; and against these 
there is no weapon so effective as the old-fashioned one with 
which Cervantes smote the great sham of his own day. 



THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 


Idle Keadee : thou mayest believe me without any oath 
that I would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the 
fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. But I 
could not counteract Nature^s law that everything shall beget 
its like ; and what, then, could this sterile, ill-tilled wit of mine 
beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, 
full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any 
other imagination — just what might be begotten in a prison, 
where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes 
its dwelling ? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, 
bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the 
things that go far to make even the most barren muses fertile, 
and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder and 
delight. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son, 
the love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not 
see his defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of 
mind and body, and talks of them to his friends as wit and 
grace. I, however — for though I pass for the father, I am 
but the stepfather to Don Quixote ” — have no desire to go 
with the current of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, 
almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse 
the defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art 
neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy soul is thine own and 
thy will as free as any man’s, whate’er he be, thou art in thine 
own house and master of it as much as the king is of his taxes 
— and thou knowest the common saying, Under my cloak I 
kill the king ; ” * all which exempts and frees thee from every 
consideration and obligation, and thou canst say what thou 
wilt of the story without fear of being abused for any ill or 
rewarded for any good thou mayest say of it. 

My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and 

^ Prov. 201. In its original and correct form it is "give orders to the 
Iting ” — " al rey mando ” — i.e., recognize no superior. 

(Ixxv) 


Ixxvi 


DON QUIXOTE. 


unadorned, without any embellishment of preface or uncount- 
able muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such 
as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell 
thee, though composing it cost me some labor, I found none 
greater than the making of this Preface thou art now reading. 
Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many did I 
lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these 
times, as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen in 
my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, 
thinking of what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a 
certain lively, clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in 
thought, asked the reason ; to which I, making no mystery of 
it, answered that I was thinking of the preface I had to make 
for the story of “ Don Quixote,” which so troubled me that I 
had a mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the 
achievements of so noble a knight. 

For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about 
what that ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when 
it sees me, after slumbering so many years in the silence of 
oblivion, coming out now with all my years upon my back, and 
with a book as dry as a rush, devoid of invention, meagre in style, 
poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in learning and wisdom, 
without quotations in the margin or annotations at the end, 
after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all fables 
and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, 
and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers 
with amazement and convince them that the authors are men 
of learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they 
quote the Holy Scriptures ! — any one would say they are St. 
Thomases or other doctors of the Church, observing as they do 
a decorum so ingenious that in one sentence they describe a 
distracted lover and in the next deliver a devout little sermon 
that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and read. Of all this 
there will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing to quote in 
the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know what 
authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do, 
under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending 
with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer 
and the other a painter. Also my book must do without son- 
nets at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, 
marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets. Though if 
I were to ask two or three obliging friends, I know they would 


THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 


Ixxvii 


give me them, and such as the productions of those that have 
the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.* 

In short, my friend,’’ I continued, I am determined 
that Sefior Bon Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of 
his own La Mancha until Heaven provide some one to garnish 
him with all those things he stands in need of ; because I find 
myself, through my shallowness and want of learning, un- 
equal to supplying them, and because I am by nature shy and 
careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself can 
say without them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you 
found me in, and reason enough, what you have heard from 
me.” 

Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the fore- 
head and breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, Before 
God, Brother, now am I disabused of an error in which I have 
been living all this long time I have known you, all through 
which I have taken you to be shrewd and sensible in all you 
do ; but now I see you are as far from that as the heaven is 
from the earth. How ? Is it possible that things of so little 
moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe 
wit like yours, fit to break through and crush far greater 
obstacles ? By my faith, this comes, not of any want of 
ability, but of too much indolence and too little knowledge of 
life. Bo you want to know if I am telling the truth ? Well, 
then, attend to me, and you will see how, in the opening and 
shutting of an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties, and 
supply all those deficiencies which you say check and dis- 
courage you from bringing before the world the story of your 
famous Bon Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight- 
errantry.” 

* The humor of this, and indeed of the greater part of the Preface, can 
hardly be relished without a knowledge of the books of the day, but espe- 
cially Lope de Vega’s, which in their original editions appeared generally 
with an imposing display of complimentary sonnets and verses, as well as 
of other adjuncts of the sort Cervantes laughs at. Lope’s Isidro (1599) had 
ten pieces of complimentary verse prefixed to it, and the Hermosura de 
Angelica (1602) had seven. Hartzenbusch remarks that Aristotle and 
Plato are the first authors quoted by Lope in the Peregrino en su Fatria 
(1604). 

Who the two or three obliging friends may have been is not easy to say. 
Young Quevedo, who had just then taken his place in the front rank of 
the poets of the day, was, no doubt, one ; Espinel may have been another ; 
and Jauregui might have been the third. Cervantes had not many friends 
among the poets of the day. His friendships lay rather among those of 
the generation that was dying out when Don Quixote appeared. 


Ixxviii 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Say on/’ said I, listening to his talk ; how do you pro- 
pose to make up for my diffidence, and reduce to order this 
chaos of perplexity I am in ? ” 

To which he made answer, Your first difficulty about the 
sonnets, epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want 
for the beginning, and which ought to be by persons of im- 
portance and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a 
little trouble to make them ; you can afterwards baptize them, 
and put any name you like to them, fathering them on Prester 
John of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to my 
knowledge, were said to have been famous poets : and even 
if they were not, and any pedants or bachelors should attack 
you and question the fact, never care two maravedis for that, 
for even if they prove a lie against you they cannot cut off 
the hand you wrote it with. 

‘‘ As to references in the margin to the books and authors 
from whom you take the aphorisms and sayings you put into 
your story, it is only contriving to fit in nicely any sentences 
or scraps of Latin you may happen to have by heart, or at any 
rate that will not give you much trouble to look up ; so as, 
when you speak of freedom and captivity, to insert 

Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro ; 

and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it ; ^ 
or, if you allude to the power of death, to come in with — 

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 

Regumque turres. 

If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our 
enemy, go at once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do 
with a very small amount of research, and quote no less than 
the words of God himself : Ego autem dico vohis : diligite 
inimicos vestros. If you speak of evil thoughts, turn to the 
Gospel : De corde exeunt eogitationes malce. If of the fickle- 
ness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you his distich : 

Donee eris felix multos numerabis amicos, 

Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.* 

* ^sop, Fable of the Dog and the Wolf. 

* The distich is not Cato’s, but Ovid’s ; but Hartzenbusch points out that 
there is a distich of Cato’s beginning Cum fueris felix which Cervantes 
may have originally inserted, substituting the other afterwards as more 
applicable. Lope de Vega’s second name was Felix, and Hartzenbusch 
thinks the quotation was aimed at him. The Cato is, of course, Dionysius 
Cato, author of the Disiicha de Moribus. 


THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 


Ixxix 


With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for 
a grammarian at all events, and that nowadays is no small 
honor and profit. 

With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, 
you may safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant 
in your book contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and 
with this alone, which will cost you almost nothing, you have 
a grand note, for you can put — The giant Golias or Goliath 
was a Philistine whom the shepherd David slew by a mighty 
stone-cast in the Terebinth valley y as is related in the Book of 
Kings — in the chapter where you find it written. 

Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite litera- 
ture and cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be 
named in your story, and there you are at once with another 
famous annotation, setting forth — The river Tagus was so 
called after a King of Spain : it has its source in such and 
such a place and falls into the oceany kissing the walls of the 
famous city of LisboUy and it is a common belief that it has 
golden sands, etc.^ If you should have anything to do with 
robbers, I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by 
heart ; if with loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, 
who will give you the loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any 
reference to whom will bring you great credit ; ® if with hard- 
hearted ones, Ovid will furnish you with Medea; if with 
witches or enchantresses, Homer has Calypso, and Virgil 
Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Caesar himself will 
lend you himself in his own ^Commentaries,’ and Plutarch 
will give you a thousand Alexanders. If you should deal 
with love, with two ounces you may know of Tuscan you can 
go to Leon the Hebrew, who will supply you to your heart’s 
content ; or if you should not care to go to foreign countries 
you have at home Fonseca’s ^ Of the Love of God,’ in which is 
condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want 
on the subject. “ In short, all you have to do is to manage to 
quote these names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, 

^ In the Index of Proper Names to Lope’s there is a description 

of the Tagus in very nearly these words. 

* The Bishop of Mondonedo was Antonio de Guevara, in whose 
epistles the story referred to appears. The introduction of the Bishop 
and the " creditable reference ” is a touch after Swift’s heart. 

^ Author of the Dialoghi di Amore^ a Portuguese Jew, who settled in 
Spain, but was expelled and went to Naples in 1492. 

< Amor de Dios., by Cristobal de Fonseca, printed in 1594. 


Ixxx 


DON QUIXOTE. 


in your own, and leave it to me to insert the annotations and 
quotations, and I swear by all that ’s good * to fill your mar- 
gins and use up four sheets at the end of the book. 

Now let us come to those references to authors which other 
books have, and you want for ypurs. The remedy for this is 
very simple : You have only to look out for some book that 
quotes them all, from A to Z as you say yourself, and then 
insert the very same alphabet in your book, and though the 
imposition may be plain to see, because you have so little need 
to borrow from them, that is no matter ; there will probably 
be some simple enough to believe that you have made use of 
them all in this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if 
it answers no other purpose, this long catalogue of authors 
will serve to give a surprising look of authority to your book. 
Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify whether you 
have followed them or whether you have not, being no way 
concerned in it ; especially as, if I mistake not, this book of 
yours has no need of any one of those things you say it wants, 
for it is, from beginning to end, an attack upon the books of 
chivalry, of which Aristotle never dreamt, nor St. Basil said a 
word, nor Cicero had any knowledge ; nor do the niceties of 
truth nor the observations of astrology come within the range 
of its fanciful vagaries ; nor have geometrical measurements 
or refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything to 
do with it ; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up 
things human and divine, a sort of motley in which no 
Christian understanding should dress itself. It has only to 
avail itself of truth to nature in its composition, and the more 
perfect the imitation the better the work will be. And as this 
piece of yours aims at nothing more than to destroy the author- 
ity and influence which books of chivalry have in the world 
and with the public, there is no need for you to go a-begging 
for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy Scripture, 
fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from 
saints ; but merely to take care that your style and diction 
run musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and 

*" By all that ’s good” — " Voto a tal” — one of the milder forms of 
asseveration used as a substitute on occasions when the stronger " Voto 
a Dios ” might seem uncalled for or irreverent ; an expletive of the same 
nature as " Egad !”" Begad ! ” or the favorite feminine exclamation, 
" Oh my ! ” " By all that ’s good ” has, no doubt, the same origin. Of the 
same sort are, "Voto a Brios,” "Voto a Bus,” " Cuerpo de tal,” " Vida 
de tal,” etc. The last two correspond to our " Od’s body,” " Od’s life.” 


THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 


Ixxxi 


well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of 
your power and as well as possible, and putting your ideas 
intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too, that 
in reading your story the melancholy may be moved to 
laughter, and the merry made merrier still ; that the simple 
shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the in- 
vention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail 
to praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the destruction 
of that ill-founded edifice of the books of chivalry, hated by 
some and praised by many more ; for if you succeed in this 
you will have achieved no small success.” 

In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and 
his observations made such an impression on me that, without 
attempting to question them, I admitted their soundness, and 
out of them I determined to make this Preface ; wherein, 
gentle reader, thou wilt .perceive my friend’s good sense, my 
good fortune in finding such an adviser in such a time of need, 
and what thou hast gained in receiving, without addition or 
alteration, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
who is held by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo 
de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and the bravest 
knight that has for many years been seen in that neighbor- 
hood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee 
in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honored a 
knight, but I do desire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou 
wilt make with the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, 
to my thinking, I have given thee condensed all the squirely 
drolleries ‘ that are scattered through the swarm of the vain 
books of chivalry. And so — may God give thee health, and 
not forget me. Vale. 

* The gracioso was the "droll” of the Spanish stage. Cervantes re- 
peatedly uses the word to describe Sancho, and, as here, alludes to his 
gracias or drolleries. 


VOL. I.—/ 


Ixxxii 


DON QUIXOTE. 


COMMENDATORY VERSES. ^ 


URGANDA THE UNKNOWN ^ 

TO THE BOOK OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

If to be welcomed by the good, 

0 Book ! thou make thy steady aim, 

No empty chatterer will dare 

To question or dispute thy claim. 

But if perchance thou hast a mind 
To win of idiots approbation. 

Lost labor will be thy reward. 

Though they dl pretend appreciation. 

They say a goodly shade he finds 
Who shelters ’neath a goodly tree ; * 

And such a one thy kindly star 
In Bejar hath provided thee : 

A royal tree whose spreading boughs 
A show of princely fruit display ; 

A tree that bears a noble Duke, 

The Alexander of his day.'* 

’ All translators, I think, except Shelton and Mr. Duffield, have entirely 
omitted these preliminary pieces of verse, which, however, should be 
preserved — not for their poetical merits, which are of the slenderest 
sort, but because, being burlesques on the pompous, extravagant, lauda- 
tory verses usually prefixed to books in the time of Cervantes, they are 
in harmony with the aim and purpose of the work, and also a fulfilment 
of the promise held out in the Preface. 

* Or more strictly "the unrecognized ; ” a personage in Amadis of Gaul 
somewhat akin to Morgan la Fay and Vivien in the Arthur legend, though 
the part she plays is more like that of Merlin. She derived her title from 
the faculty which, like Merlin, she possessed of changing her form and 
appearance at will. The verses are assigned to her probably because she 
was the adviser of Amadis. They form a kind of appendix to the author’s 
Preface. 

3 Prov. 15. 

^The Duke of Bejar, to whom the book was dedicated. The Zuniga 
family, of which the Duke was the head, claimed descent from the royal 
line of Navarre. 


COMMENDATORY VERSES. 


Ixxxiii 


Of a Manchegan gentleman 

Thy purpose is to tell the story, 

Relating how he lost his wits 
O’er idle tales of love and glory, 

Of ladies, arms, and cavaliers : ” ^ 

A new Orlando Furioso — 

Innamorato, rather — who 
Won Dulcinea del Toboso. 

Put no vain emblems on thy shield; 

All figures — that is bragging play.* 

A modest dedication make, 

And give no scoffer room to say. 

What ! Xlvaro de Luna here ? 

Or is it Hannibal again ? 
dr does King Francis at Madrid 
Once more of destiny complain ? "’ ® 

Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee 
Deep erudition to bestow, 

Or black Latino’s gift of tongues, ^ 

Ko Latin let thy pages show. 

Ape not philosophy or wit. 

Lest one who can not comprehend. 

Make a wry face at thee and ask. 

Why offer flowers to me, my friend ? ” 

*"Le donne, i cavalieri, I’arme, gli amori ” — Orlando Furioso^ i. i. 
This is one of many proofs that the Orlando of Ariosto was one of the 
sources from which Cervantes borrowed. 

2 « Figures,” i.e. picture cards. The allusion to vain emblems on the 
shield is a sly hit at Lope de Vega, whose portrait in the Arcadia., and 
again in the Rimas (1602), has underneath it a shield bearing nine castles 
surrounded by an orle with ten more. 

2 This refers to the querulous and egotistic tone in which dedications 
were often written. Alvaro de Luna was the Constable of Castile and 
favorite of John II., beheaded at Valladolid in 1450. Francis I. of 
France was kept a prisoner at Madrid by Charles V. for a year after the 
battle of Pavia. The last four lines of the stanza are almost verbatim 
from verses by Fray Domingo de Guzman written as a gloss upon some 
lines carved by the poet Fray Luis de Leon on the wall of his cell in Va- 
lladolid, where he was imprisoned by the Inquisition. 

^Juan Latino, a self-educated negro slave in the household of the 
Duke of Sesa, who gave him his freedom. He was for sixty years Pro- 
fessor of Rhetoric and Latin at Granada, where he died in 1573. 


Ixxxiv 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Be not a meddler ; no affair 

Of thine the life thy neighbors lead : 
Be prudent ; oft the random jest 
Eecoils upon the jester’s head. 

Thy constant labor let it be 

To earn thyself an honest name, 

For fooleries preserved in print 
Are perpetuity of shame. 

A further counsel bear in mind : 

If that thy roof be made of glass, 

It shows small wit to pick up stones 
To pelt the people as they pass. 

Win the attention of the wise, 

And give the thinker food for thought 5 
Whoso indites frivolities. 

Will but by simpletons be sought. 


AMADIS OF GAUL 

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

SONNET. 

Thou that didst imitate that life of mine,* 

When I in lonely sadness on the great 
Bock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate, 

In self-imposed penance there to pine ; 

Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine 
Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate 
Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state 
Off the bare earth and on earth’s fruits didst dine 5 
Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure. 

So long as on the round of the fourth sphere 
The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer. 

In thy renown thou shalt remain secure. 

Thy country’s name in story shall endure. 

And thy sage author stand without a peer. 

’ In allusion to Don Quixote’s penance in the Sierra Morena. 


COMMENDATORY VERSES. 


Ixxxv 


DON BELIANIS OF GREECE ^ 

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 
SONNET. 

In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed, 

I was the foremost knight of chivalry. 

Stout, bold, expert, as e’er the world did see 4 
Thousands from the oppressor’s wrong I freed j 
Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed; 

In love I proved my truth and loyalty ; 

The hugest giant was a dwarf for me ; 

Ever to knighthood’s, laws gave I good heed. 

My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned. 

And even Chance, submitting to control. 

Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will. 
Yet — though above yon horned moon enthroned 
My fortune seems to sit — great Quixote, still 
Envy of thy achievements fills my soul. 


THE LADY ORIANA^ 

TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO. 

SONNET. 

Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be ! 

It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so — 

Could Miraflores change to El Toboso, 

And London’s town to that which shelters thee ! 

Oh, could mine but acquire that livery 

Of countless charms thy mind and body show so ! 

Or him, now famous grown — thou mad’st him grow so — 
Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see ! 

Oh, could I be released from Amadis 
By exercise of such coy chastity 

> V. Note 1, p. 3. 

* Oriana, the heroine of Amadis of Gaul. Her castle Miraflores was 
within two leagues of London. Shelton in his translation puts it at 
Greenwich. 


Ixxxvi 


DON QUIXOTE. 


As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss ! 

Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy ; 
None would I envy, all would envy me, 

And happiness be mine without alloy. 


GANDALIN, SQUIEE OF AMADIS OF GAUL, 

TO.SANCHO PANZA, SQUIRE OF DON QUIXOTE. 
SONNET. 

All hail, illustrious man ! Fortune, when she 
Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade. 

Her care and tenderness of thee displayed, 
Shaping thy course from misadventure free. 

No longer now doth proud knight-errantry 
Eegard with scorn the sickle and the spade ; 

Of towering arrogance less count is made 
Than of plain esquire-like simplicity. 

I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name. 

And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff 
With comforts that thy providence proclaim, 
Excellent Sancho ! hail to thee again ! 

To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain 
Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.^ 


FEOM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,^ 

ON SANCHO PANZA AND ROCINANTE. 

ON SANCHO. 

I am the esquire Sancho Pan — 

Who served Don Quixote of La Man — ; 

* "Rustic kiss and cuff” — huzcorona — a boorish practical joke the 
point of which lay in inducing some simpleton to kiss the joker’s hand, 
which as he stoops gives him a cuff on the cheek. The application here 
is not very obvious, for it is the person who does homage who receives 
the huzcorona. It is not clear Avho is meant by the Spanish Ovid ; some 
say Cervantes himself; others, as Hartzenhusch, Lope de Vega. 

2 " Motley poet ” — Poeta entreverado. Entr ever ado is properly " mixed 
fat and lean,” as bacon should be. Commentators have been at some 


COMM EN DA TOR Y VERSES. 


Ixxxvii 


But from his service I retreat — , 
Besolved to pass my life discreet — ; 
For Villadiego, called the Si — , 
Maintained that only in reti — 

Was found the secret of well-be — , 
According to the Celesti — : ^ 

A book divine, except for sin — 

By speech too plain in my opin — 


ON ROCINANTE. 

I am that Kocinante fa — , 

Great-grandson of great Babie — 

Who, all for being lean and bon — , 

Had one Don Quixote for an o-wn — ; 

But if I matched him well in weak — ^ 

I never took short commons meek — , 

But kept myself in corn by steal — , 

A trick I learned from Lazaril — , 

When with a piece of straw so neat — 

The blind man of his wine he cheat — A 

pains to extract a meaning from these lines. The truth is they have 
none, and were not meant to have any. If it were not profanity to apply 
the word to anything coming from Cervantes, they might be called mere 
pieces of buffoonery, mere idle freaks of the author’s pen. The verse in 
which they are written is worthy of the matter. It is of the sort called in 
Spanish de pies cortados^ its peculiarity being that each line ends with a 
word the last syllable of which has been lopped off. The invention has 
been attributed to Cervantes, but the honor is one which no admirer of 
his will be solicitous to claim for him, and in fact there are half a dozen 
specimens in the Picara Justina^ a book published if anything earlier 
than Don Quixote. I have here imitated the tour de force as well as I 
could, an experiment never before attempted and certainly not worth re- 
peating. The "Urganda” verses are written in the same fashion, but I 
did not feel bound to try the reader’s patience — or my own — by a more 
extended reproduction of the puerility. 

' Celestina^ or Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melihoea (1499), the first 
act of which is generally attributed to Rodrigo Cota, the remaining nine- 
teen being by Fernando Rojas. Taere is no mention in it of " Villadiego 
the Silent;” the name only appears in the proverbial saying about "taking 
the breeches of Villadiego,” i.e. beating a hasty retreat. 

® Babieca, the famous charger of the Cid. 

3 An allusion to the charming little novel of Lazarillo de Tormes, and 
the trick by which the hero secured a share of his master’s wine. 


Ixxxviii 


DON QUIXOTE, 


ORLANDO FURIOSO 

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

SONNET. 

If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none ; * 
Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer ; 

Nor is there room for one when thou art near, 
Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one ! 
Orlando, by Angelica undone. 

Am I ; o’er distant seas condemned to steer. 
And to Fame’s altars as an offering bear 
Valor respected by oblivion. . 

I can not be thy rival, for thy fame 
And prowess rise above all rivalry. 

Albeit both bereft of wits we go. 

But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame 
Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me ; 

• Love ’binds us in a fellowship of woe. 


THE KNIGHT OF PHCEBUS^ 

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

My sword was not to be compared with thine, 

Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy. 

Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine 
That smote from east to west as lightnings fly, 

’ The play upon the word " Peer ” is justified by Orlando’s rank as one 
of the Twelve Peers. This sonnet is pronounced "truly unintelligble and 
bad ” by Clemencin, and it is, it must be confessed, very feeble and ob- 
scure. I have adopted a suggestion of Hartzenbusch’s which makes 
somewhat better sense of the concluding lines, but no emendation can do 
much. Nor are the remaining sonnets much better ; there is some drol- 
lery in the dialogue between Babieca and Rocinante, but the sonnets of 
the Knight of Phoebus and Solisdan are weak. There was no particular 
call for Cervantes to be funny, but if he thought otherwise it would have 
been just as well not to leave the fun out. 

*The Knights of Phoebus^ or of the Sun — Caballero del Febo^ espejo de 
Principes y Caballeros — a ponderous romance by Diego Ortunez de 
Calahorra and Marcos Martinez, in four parts, the first printed at Sarv 
gossa in 1562, the others at Alcald de H^nares in 1680. 


COMMENDATORY VERSES. 


Ixxxix 


I scorned all empire, and that monarchy 
The rosy east held out did I resign 
For one glance of Claridiana’s eye, 

The bright Aurora for whose love I pine. 

A miracle of constancy my love ; 

And banished by her ruthless cruelty. 

This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame. 
But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove. 

For thou dost live in Dulcinea’s name. 

And famous, honored, wise, she lives in thee. 


FROM SOLISDAhTi 

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

SONNET. 

Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true. 

That crazy brain of yours have quite upset, 

But aught of base or mean hath never yet 
Been charged by any in reproach to you. 

Your deeds are open proof in all men’s view ; 

For you went forth injustice to abate, 

And for your pains sore drubbings did you get 
From many a rascally and ruffian crew. 

If the fair Dulcinea, your heart’s queen. 

Be unrelenting in her cruelty. 

If still your woe be powerless to move her. 

In such hard case your comfort let it be 
That Sancho was a sorry go-between : 

A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover. 

* Solisdan is apparently a name invented by Cervantes, for no such 
personage figures in any known book of chivalry. 


xc 


DON QUIXOTE. 


DIALOGUE 

BETWEEN BABTECA AND ROCINANTE. 

SONNET. 

B. “ How comes it, Rocinante, you ’re so lean ? ” 

R. I ’m underfed, with overwork I ’m worn.” 

B. “ But what becomes of all the hay and corn ? ” 

R. My master gives me none ; he ’s much too mean.” 

B. Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween ; 

’T is like an ass your master thus to scorn.” 

R. “ He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born ; 

Why, he ’s in love ; what ’s plainer to be seen ? ” 

B. To be in love is folly ? ” — R. No great sense.” 

B. You ’re metaphysical.” — R. ^^From want of food.” 
B. “ Rail at the squire, then. — R. Why, what ’s the good 
I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye. 

But, squire or master, where ’s the difference ? 

They ’re both as sorry hacks as Rocinante.” 



(xci) 







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DON 


QUIXOTE. 

BAJiT /. 


CHAPTER I. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE 
FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire 
to call to mind,^ there lived not long since one of those gentle- 
men that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean 
hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef 
than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays,^ lentils 
on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away 
with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a 

* See Introduction, p. xxxiii. 

* The national dish, the o//a, of which the puchero of Central and 
Northern Spain is a poor relation, is a stew with heef, bacon, sausage, 
chick-peas, and cabbage for its prime constituents, and for ingredients 
any other meat or vegetable that may be available. There is nothing ex- 
ceptional in Don Quixote’s olla being more a beef than a mutton one, for 
mutton is scarce in Spain except in the mountain districts. Salpicon 
(salad) is meat minced with red peppers, onions, oil, and vinegar, and is 
in fact a sort of meat salad. Duelos y quehrantos^ the title of the Don’s 
Saturday dish, would be a puzzle even to the majority of Spanish 
readers were it not for Pellicer’s explanation. In the cattle-feeding dis- 
tricts of Spain, the carcasses of animals that came to an untimely end 
were converted into salt meat, and the parts unfit for that purpose were 
sold cheap under the name of duelos y quehrantos — " sorrows and losses ” 
(literally " breakings ”) and were held to be sufficiently unlike meat to be 
eaten on days when flesh was forbidden, among which in Castile Saturday 
was included in commemoration of the battle of Navas de Tolosa. Any 
rendering of such a phrase must necessarily be unsatisfactory, and in 
adopting " scraps ” I have, as in the other cases, merely gone on the prin- 
ciple of choosing the least of evils. 

VOL- I.-l 


2 


DON QUIXOTE. 


doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match 
for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his 
best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past 
forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and 
market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle 
the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was border- 
ing on fifty, he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a 
very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his 
surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some 
difference of opinion among the authors who write on the sub- 
ject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain thal 
he was called Quixana. This, however, is of but little im* 
portance to our tale ; it will be enough not to stray a hair’s 
breadth from the truth in the telling of it. 

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman 
whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year 
round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such 
ardor and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pur- 
suit of his field-sports, and even the management of his prop- 
erty ; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation 
go that he sold many an acre of tillage-land to buy books of 
chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he 
could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those 
of the famous Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their 
lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his 
sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon court- 
ships and cartels, where he often found passages like the 
reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so 
weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your 
beauty; ” or again, the high heavens, that of your divinity 
divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the 
desert your greatness deserves!^ ^ Over conceits of this sort 
the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striv- 
ing to understand them and worm the meaning out of them ,- 
what Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted 
had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was 

* The first passage quoted is from the Chronicle of Don Florisel de 
Niquea, by Feliciano de Silva, the volumes of which appeared in 1532, 
1536, and 1551, and from the tenth and eleventh books of the Amadis 
series. The second is from Olivante de Laura, by Torquemada (1564). 
Clemencin points out that the first passage had been previously picked 
out as a sample of the absurdity of the school, by Diego Hurtado de 
Mendoza. 


CHAPTER I. 


3 


not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis ^ gave 
and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the sur- 
geons who had cui*ed him, he must have had his face and body 
covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, how- 
ever, the author’s way of ending his book with the promise of 
that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted 
to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, 
which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful 
piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing 
thoughts prevented him. 

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his 
village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza ^ ) as to 
which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or 
Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, how- 
ever, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight 
of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare 
with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, 
because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and 
was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while 
in the matter of valor he was not a whit behind him. In 
short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his 
nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, 
poring over them ; and what with little sleep and much read- 
ing his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy 
grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchant- 
ments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, 
agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense ; and it so pos- 
sessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he 
read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more 
reality in it. He used to say the Cid Kuy Diaz was a very 
good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the 
Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in 
half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of 
Bernardo del Carpio because at Eoncesvalles he slew Boland 
in spite of enchantments,® availing himself of the artifice of 

* The History of Don Belianis de Grecia^ by the Licentiate Jeronimo 
Fernandez, 1547. It has been by some included in the Amadis series, 
but it is in reality an independent romance. 

* Siguenza was one of the Universidades menores^ the degrees of which 
were often laughed at by the Spanish humorists. 

3 The Spanish tradition of the battle of Roncesvalles is, of course, at 
variance with the Chanson de Roland^ but it is somewhat nearer historical 
truth, inasmuch as the slaughter of Roland and the rearguard of Charle- 
magne’s army was effected not by Saracens, but by the Basque moun- 
taineers. 


4 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his 
arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, 
although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill- 
conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above 
all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he 
saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing every one 
he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of 
Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. 
And to have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he 
would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the 
bargain.^ 

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest 
notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was 
that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the sup- 
port of his own honor as for the service of his country, that 
he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world 
over in full armor and on horseback in quest of adventures, 
and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as 
being the usual practices of knights-errant ; righting every 
kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from 
which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. 
Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of 
his arm Emperor of Trebizond ^ at least ; and so, led away by 
the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he 
set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution. 

The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had 
belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying 
forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. 
He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived 
one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing 
but a simple morion.® This deficiency, however, his ingenuity 
supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard 
which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is 
true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a 
cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the 
first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week 

* Ganelon, the arch-traitor of the Charlemagne legend. In Spanish he 
appears as Galalon, in Italian as Gano ; but in this as in the cases of Ro- 
land, Baldwin, and others, I have thought it best to give the name in the 
form in which it is best known, and will be most readily recognized, in- 
stead of Roldan, Valdovinos, etc. 

* Like Reinaldos or Rinaldo, who came to be Emperor of Trebizond. 

^ That is, a simple head-piece without either visor or beaver. 


CHAPTER I. 


5 


to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces dis- 
concerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he 
set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he 
was satisfied with its strength ; and then, not caring to try 
any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a 
helmet of the most perfect construction. 

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more 
quartos than a real ^ and more blemishes than the steed of 
Gonela, that ‘‘ tantum pellis et ossa fuit,” surpassed in his 
eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. 
Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, 
because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse 
belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits 
of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and 
he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been 
before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was ; 
for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new 
character, he should take a new name, and that it should 
be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new 
order and calling he was about to follow. And so, after 
having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and 
remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he 
decided upon calling him Bocinante, a name, to his thinking, 
lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack be- 
fore he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all 
the hacks in the world.^ 

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he 
was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days 
more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his 
mind to call himself Don Quixote,^ whence, as has been 

* An untranslatable pun on the word " quarto,” which means a sand- 
crack in a horse’s hoof, as well as the coin equal to one-eighth of the 
real. Gonela, or Gonnella, was a jester in the service of Borso, Duke 
of Ferrara (1450-1470). A book of the jests attributed to him was 
printed in 1568, the year before Cervantes went to Italy. 

* "Rocin” is a horse employed in labor, as distinguished from one kept 
for pleasure, the chase, or personal use generally ; the word therefore 
may fairly be translated " hack.” " Ante ” is an old form of " Antes ” 
= " before,” whether in time or in order. 

2 Quixote — or, as it is now written, Quijote — means the piece of 
armor that protects the thigh (cwissaw, cuish). Smollett’s " Sir Lancelot 
Greaves ” is a kind of parody on the name. Quixada and Quesada were 
both distinguished family names. The Governor of the Goletta, who 
was one of the passengers on board the unfortunate Sol galley, was a 
Quesada; and the faithful major-domo of Charles V. and guardian of 
Don John of Austria was a Qixada. 


6 


DON QUIXOTE. 


already said, the authors of this veracious history have in- 
ferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, 
and not Quesada as others would have it. Kecollecting, how- 
ever, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself 
curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his 
kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself 
Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add 
on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of 
La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately 
his origin and country, and did honor to it in taking his 
surname from it. 

So then, his armor being furbished, his morion turned into 
a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he 
came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but 
to look out for a lady to be in love with ; for a knight-errant 
without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body 
without a soul. As he said to himself, If, for my sins, or 
by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a 
common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him 
in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in- 
short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have 
some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come 
in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a 
humble, submissive voice say, ‘ I am the giant Caraculiambro, 
lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single com- 
bat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of 
La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before 
your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleas- 
ure?’^’ Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery 
of this speech, especially when he had thought of some one 
to call his Lady ! There was, so the story goes, in a village 
near his own a very good-looking farm girl with whom he had 
been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she 
never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name 
was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer 
the title of Lady of his Thoughts ; and after some search for 
a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, 
and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great 
lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso — she 
being of El Toboso — a name, to his mind, musical, uncom- 
mon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed 
upon himself and the things belonging to him. 


CHAPTER IL 


7 


CHAPTER II. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS 
DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME. 

These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any 
longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the 
thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what 
wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices 
to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, with- 
out giving notice of his intention to any one, and without any- 
body seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day 
(which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he 
donned his suit of armor, mounted Rocinante with his patched- 
up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by the 
back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the 
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease 
he had made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely 
did he find himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought 
struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the en- 
terprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had 
not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of 
chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any 
knight ; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice 
knight, to wear white armor,^ without a device upon the shield 
until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections 
made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger 
than any reasoning he made up his mind to have himself 
dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the 
example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books 
that brought him to this pass. As for white armor, he resolved, 
on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than 
an ermine ; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, 
taking that which his horse chose, for in this he believed lay 
the essence of adventures. 

Thus setting out, our new-fledged ^ adventurer paced along, 
talking to himself and saying, Who knows but that in time 

’ Properly " blank ” armor, but Don Quixote takes the word in its com- 
mon sense of white. 

* Flamante. Shelton translates "burnished,” and Jervas "flaming,” 
but the secondary meaning of the word is " new,” " fresh,” " unused.” 


8 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to come, when the veracious history of my famous deeds is 
made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth 
my first sally in the early morning, will do it after this 
fashion ? ^ Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face 
of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright 
hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned 
their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the 
coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her 
jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and 
balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned 
knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, 
mounted his celebrated steed Eocinante and began to traverse 
the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel ; ’ ” which in fact he 
was actually traversing.^ Happy the age, happy the time,” 
he continued, in which shall be made known my deeds of 
fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned 
in pictures, for a memorial forever. And thou, 0 sage magi- 
cian,^ whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the 
chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, 
my good Eocinante, the constant companion of my ways and 
wanderings.” Presently he broke out again, as if he were 
love-stricken in earnest, 0 Princess Dulcinea, lady of this 
captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me 
forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from 
the presence of thy beauty. 0 lady, deign to hold in remem- 
brance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for 
love of thee.” 

So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, 
all in the style of those his books had taught him, imitating 
their language as well as he could ; and all the wEile he rode 
so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervor 
that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly 
all day he travelled without anything remarkable happening 
to him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to en- 
counter some one at once upon whom to try the might of his 
strong arm. 

* The Campo de Montiel was famous ” as being the scene of the 
battle, in 1369, in which Pedro the Cruel was defeated by his brother 
Henry of Trastamara supported by Du Guesclin. The actual battle-field, 
however, lies some considerable distance to the south of Argamasilla, on 
the slope of the Sierra Morena, near the castle of Montiel in which Pedro 
took refuge. 

“ In the later romances of chivalry, a sage or a magician or some such 
personage was frequently introduced as the original source of the history. 


CHAPTER IL 


9 


Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with 
was that of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the 
windmills ; but what I have ascertained on this point, and 
what I have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is 
that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall his 
hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, 
looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or 
shepherd’s shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve 
his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn,* 
which was welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not 
the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he 
reached it just as night was setting in. At the door were 
standing two young women, girls of the district as they call 
them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had 
chanced to halt that night at the inn ; and as, happen what 
might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imagined 
seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what 
he had read of, the moment he saw the inn he j^ictured it to 
himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shin- 
ing silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the 
belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this 
inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short 
distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some 
dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound 
of trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the 
castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and that 
Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the;, 
inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing 
there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely 
ladies taking their ease at the castle gate. 

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was 
going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, 
without any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blast 
of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed 

* In Spain there are at least half a dozen varieties of inns each with its 
distinctive name. In Don Quixote the inn is almost always the venta^ the 
solitary roadside inn where travellers of all sorts stop to bait ; and it has 
remained to this day much what Cervantes has described. The particular 
venta that he had in his eye in this and the next chapter is said to be the 
Venta de Quesada, about 2} leagues north of Manzanares, on the Madrid 
and Seville road. ( V. map.) The house itself was burned down about a 
century ago, and has been rebuilt, but the yard at the back with its draw* 
well and stone trough are said to remain as they were in his day. 


10 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of 
some dwarf announcing his arrival ; and so with prodigious 
satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, see- 
ing a man of this sort approaching in full armor and with 
lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when 
Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his 
pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry, dusty visage,' and with 
courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, Your 
ladyships need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs 
not to the order of knighthood which I profess to offer to any 
one, much less to high-born maidens as your appearance pro- 
claims you to be.’’ The girls were looking at him and strain- 
ing their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor 
obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a 
thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their 
laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, 
‘‘ Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has 
little cause is great silliness ; this, however, I say not to pain 
or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve you.” 

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks 
of our cavalier only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that 
increased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther 
if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being 
a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this 
grotesque figure clad in armor that did not match any more 
than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at 
all indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of 
amusement ; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a compli- 
cated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he 
said, “ Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating 
the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of 
everything else here.” Don Quixote, observing the respectful 
bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn 
seemed in his eyes), made answer, Sir Castellan, for me any- 
thing will suffice, for 

" My armor is my only wear, 

My only rest the fray.” 

^ The commentators are somewhat exercised by the contradiction here. 
If Don Quixote raised his visor and disclosed his visage, hoAv was it that’ 
tlie girls were unable " to make out the features which the clumsy visor 
obscured”? Cervantes probably was thinking of the make-shift paste- 
board visor {mala visera^ as he calls it), which could not be put up 
completely, and so kept the face behind it in the shade. Hartzenbusch, 
however, believes the words to have been interpolated, and omits them. 


CHAPTER II. 


11 


The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him 
for a worthy of Castile/’ ^ though he was in fact an Andalu- 
sian, and one from the Strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief 
as Casus and as full of tricks as a student or a page. In 
that case/’ said he, 

" Your bed is on the flinty rock, 

Your sleep to watch alway; ^ 

and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any 
quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, 
not to say for a single night.” So saying, he advanced to hold 
the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty 
and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then 
charged the host to take great care of his horse as he was the 
best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The land- 
lord eyed him over, but did not find him as good as Don 
Quixote said, nor even half as good, and putting him up in the 
stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, 
whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace 
with him, were now relieving of his armor. They had taken 
off his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor 
saw how to open his gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, 
for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was 
no untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he 
would not by any means consent to, so he remained all the 
evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that 
can be imagined ; and while they were removing his armor, 

* Sano de Castilla — a slang phrase from the Germania dialect for a 
thief in disguise {ladron disimulado — Vocahulario de Germania de 
Hidalgo) . " Castellano ” and " alcaide ” both mean governor of a castle 

or fortress, but the former means also a Castilian. 

^ The lines quoted by Don Quixote and the host are, in the original : 

" Mis arreos son las armas. 

Mi descanso el pelear. 

Mi cama, las duras pehas. 

Mi dormir, siempre velar.” 

They occur first in the old, probably fourteenth century, ballad of Mari- 
ana en un Castillo^ and were afterwards adopted as the beginning of a 
serenade. In England it would be a daring improbability to represent the 
landlord of a roadside alehouse capping verses with his guest out of 
Chevy Chase or Sir Andrew BaHon^ but in Spain familiarity with the 
old national ballad-poetry and proverbs is an accomplishment that may, 
even to this day, be met Avith in quarters quite as unpromising. 


12 


DON QUIXOTE. 


taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high 
degree belonging to the castle, he said to them with great 
sprightliness : 

" Oh, never, surely, was there knight 
So served by hand of dame, 

As served was he, Don Quixote hight, 

When from his town he came ; 

With maidens waiting on himself, 

Princesses on his hack * — 

— or Kocinante, or that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and 
Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own ; for though I had no 
intention of declaring myself until my achievements in your 
service and honor had made me known, the necessity of adapt- 
ing that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has 
given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. 
A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command 
and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my 
desire to serve you.” 

The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this 
sort, had nothing to say in reply : they only asked him if he 
wanted anything to eat. I would gladly eat a bit of some- 
thing,” said Don Quixote, for I feel it would come very sea- 
sonably.” The day happened to be a Friday, and in the 
whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they 
call in Castile “ abadejo,” in Andalusia “ bacallao,” and in 
some places curadillo,” and in others troutlet ; ” so they 
asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was 
no other fish to give him. If there be troutlets enough,” 
said Don Quixote, they will be the same thing as a trout ; 
for it is all one to me whether I am given eight reals in 
small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that 
these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or 
kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it 
come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot 
be borne without support to the inside.” They laid a table 
for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and 
the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse 
cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy 
as his own armor; but a laughable sight it was to see him 

* A parody of the opening lines of the ballad of Lancelot of the Lake. 
Their chief attraction for Cervantes was, no doubt, the occurrence of 
Tocino (rocin) in the last line. 


CHAPTER III. 


13 


eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up,^ he could 
not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless 
some one else placed it there, and this service one of the 
ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was 
impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored a 
reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into 
him through the other ; all which he bore with patience rather 
than sever the ribbons of his helmet. 

While this was going on there came up to the inn a pig- 
gelder, who, as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or 
five times, and thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that 
he was in some famous castle, and that they were regaling him 
with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the 
whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of 
the castle ; and consequently he held that his enterprise and 
sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to 
think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him 
he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiv- 
ing the order of knighthood. 


CHAPTER HI. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE 
HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A KNIGHT. 

Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty 
pothouse supper,^ and having finished it called the landlord, 
and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his 
knees before him, saying, From this spot I rise not, valiant 
knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that 
will redound to your praise and the benefit of the human 
race.’^ The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing 
a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, 
not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, 
but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon 

^ The original has, la visera alzada., "the visor up,” in which case Don 
Quixote would have found no difficulty in feeding himself. Hartzenbusch 
suggests Jaiera, beaver, which I have adopted, as it removes the difficulty, 
and is consistent with what follows ; when the* landlord " poured wine 
into him ” it must have been over the beaver, not under the visor. 

Pothouse” — venteril i.e. such as only a venia could produce. 


14 


DON QUIXOTE. 


demanded of him. I looked for no less, my lord, from your 
High Magnificence,’’ replied Don Quixote, and I have to tell 
you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted 
is that you shall dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that 
to-night I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your 
castle ; thus to-morrow, as I have said, will be accomplished 
what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam through 
all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf 
of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights- 
errant like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.” 

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of 
a wag, and had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of 
wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing' talk of this kind 
from him, and to make sport for the night he determined to 
fall in with his humor. So he told him he was quite right in 
pursuing the object he had in view, and that such a motive 
was natural and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he 
seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be ; and that he 
himself in his younger days had followed the same honorable 
calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the 
world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles 
of Eiaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Sego- 
via, the Olivera of Valencia, the Eondilla of Granada, the 
Strand of San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of 
Toledo,^ and divers other quarters, where he had proved the 
nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his fingers, doing 
many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and 
swindling minors, and in short, bringing himself under the 
notice of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain j 
until at last he had retired to this castle of his, where he was 

^ The localities here mentioned were, and some of them still are, haunts 
of the rogue and vagabond, or, what would be called in Spain, picaro 
class. The Curing-grounds of Malaga was a place outside the town where 
fish was dried ; " the Isles of Riaran ” was the slang name of a low suburb 
of the same city ; the Precinct {compas) of Seville was a district on the 
river side, not far from the plaza de toros ; the Little Market of Segovia 
was in the hollow spanned by the great aqueduct on the south side of 
the town ; the Olivera of Valencia was a small plaza in the middle of the. 
town ; the " Rondilla of Granada ” was probably in the Albaycin quarter ; 
the " Strand of San Lucar ” and the " Taverns of Toledo ” explain them- 
selves sufficiently ; and the " Colt of Cordova ” was a district on the south 
side of the city, which took its name from a horse in stone standing over 
a fountain in its centre. * As Fermin Caballero says in a queer little book 
called the Geographical Knowledge of Cervantes^ it is clear that Cervantes 
knew by heart the " Mapa picaresco de Espana.” 


CHAPTER III. 


15 


living upon his property and upon that of others ; and where 
he received all knights-errant, of whatever rank or condition 
they might be, all for the great love he bore them and that 
they might share their substance with him in return for his 
benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his 
there was no chapel in which he could watch his armor, as it 
had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case 
of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he 
might watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in 
the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies might be per- 
formed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly 
dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had 
any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he 
had not a farthing,^ as in the histories of knights-errant he 
had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point 
the landlord told him he was mistaken ; for, though not re- 
corded in the histories, because in the author’s opinion there 
was no need to mention anything so obvious and necessary as 
money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed therefore 
that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as certain 
and established that all knights-errant (about whom there 
were so many full and impeachable books) carried well-fur- 
nished purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts 
and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. 
For in those plains and deserts where they engaged in combat 
and came out wounded, it was not always that there was some 
one to cure them, unless indeed they had for a friend some 
sage magician to succor them at once by fetching through the 
air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water of 
such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of 
their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if 
they had not received any damage whatever. But in case this 
should not occur, the knights of old took care to see that their 
squires were provided with money and other requisites, such 
as lint and ointments for healing purposes ; and when it hap- 
pened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and 
seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in cun- 
ning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as 
if it were something else of more importance,^ because, unless 

’ In the original, hlanca, a coin worth about one-seventh of a farthing. 

^ The passage as it stands is sheer nonsense. Clemencin tries to make 
sense of it by substituting " less ” for " more ; ” but even with that emen- 


16 


DON QUIXOTE. 


for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favor* 
ably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him 
(and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command 
him) never from that time forth to travel without money and 
the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage of 
them when he least expected it. 

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and 
it was arranged forthwith that he should watch his armor in a 
large yard at one side of the inn ; so, collecting it all together, 
Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a 
well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance 
and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of 
the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall. 

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about 
the craze of his guest, the watching of the armor, and the dub- 
bing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange 
a form of madness, they fiocked to see it from a distance, and 
observed with what composure he sometimes paced up and 
down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed on his armor 
without taking his eyes off it for ever so long ; and as the night 
closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it might 
vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was 
plainly seen by all. 

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought 
fit to water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don 
Quixote’s armor as it lay on the trough ; but he seeing the 
other approach hailed him in a loud voice, “ 0 thou, whoever 
thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armor of 
the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have a caie 
what thou dost ; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy 
life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed 
to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if 
he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps 
flung the armor some distance from him. Seeing this, Don 
Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, ap- 
parently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, Aid me, lady 
mine, in this the first encounter that presents itself to thio 
breast which thou boldest in subjection ; let not thy favor and 
protection fail me in this first jeopardy; and, with these words 

dation it remains incoherent. Probably what Cervantes meant to write 
and possibly did write was — " for that was another still more important 
matter, because,” 0c. 



MEANWHILE ONE OF THE CARRIERS THOUGHT FIT TO WATER HIS TEAM 








CHAPTER III. 


17 


and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted 
his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on the 
carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground so stunned 
that had he followed it up with a second there would have been 
no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his 
armor and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before. 

Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened 
(for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object 
of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the 
armor in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without 
uttering a word or imploring aid from any one, once more 
dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and with- 
out actually breaking the second carrier’s head into pieces, made 
more than three of it, for he laid it open in four.^ At the noise 
all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the 
landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his 
arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, 0 Lady of 
Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for 
thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight 
on the brink of so mighty an adventure.” By this he felt him- 
self so inspirited that he would not have flinched if all the car- 
riers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the 
wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a dis- 
tance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself 
as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough 
and leave his armor unprotected. The landlord shouted to them 
to leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was 
mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he 
killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them 
knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed 
knight s-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low- 
born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he 
would call to account for his treachery. But of you,” he cried, 
base and vile rabble, I make no account ; fling, strike, come 
on, do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of 
your folly and insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much 
spirit and boldness that he filled his assailants with a terrible 
fear, and as much for this reason as at the persuasion of the 
landlord they left off stoning him, and he allowed them to carry 
off the wounded, and with the same calmness and composure as 
before resumed the watch over his armor. 

^ That is, inflicting two cuts that formed a cross. 


VoL. I. - 2 


18 


DON QUIXOTE. 


But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of 
the landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer 
upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any 
further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he 
apologized for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had 
been offered to him by these low people, who, however, had 
been well punished for their audacity. As he had already 
told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it 
needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the 
ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a 
knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and 
that could be administered in the middle of a field ; and that 
he had now done all that was needful as to watching the armor, 
for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours 
only, while he had been more than four about it. Don Quixote 
believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey him, 
and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible ; 
for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be a dubbed 
knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the 
castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his 
bidding. 

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought 
out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he 
served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle- 
end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to 
where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel down. Then, 
reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some de- 
vout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand 
and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his 
own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while mutter- 
ing between his teeth as if he were saying his prayers. Hav- 
ing done this, he directed one of the ladies to gird on his 
sword, which she did with great self-possession and gravity, 
and not a little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at 
each stage of the ceremony ; but what they had already seen 
of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within 
bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said 
to him, May God make your worship a very fortunate knight, 
and grant you success in battle.” Don Quixote asked her name 
in order that he might from that time forward know to whom 
he was beholden for the favor he had received, as he meant to 
confer upon her some portion of the honor he acquired by the 


CHAPTER IV. 


19 


might of his arm. She answered with great humility that she 
was called La Tolosa, and that she was a daughter of a cobbler 
of Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya,^ and that 
wherever she might be she would serve and esteem him as her 
lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she would do him a favor 
if thenceforward she assumed the Don ” and called herself 
Dona Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other 
buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the same 
conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her 
name, and she said it was La Molinera,^ and that she was the 
daughter of a respectable miller of Antequera ; and of her like- 
wise Don Quixote requested that she would adopt the Don ” 
and call herself Dona Molinera, making offers to her of further 
services and favors. 

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclu 
sion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on 
thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying forth in 
quest of adventures ; and saddling Hocinante at once he 
mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for 
his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in language 
so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or 
report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied 
with no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without 
calling upon him to pay the reckoning, let him go with a God- 
speed. 


CHAPTER IV. 

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT 
THE INN. 

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so 
so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself dubbed a 
knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. How- 
ever, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he 
ought to carry with him, especially that referring to money and 
shirts, he determined to go home and provide himself with all, 
and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm- 

* An old plaza in Toledo, so called probably from a family of the name 
of Ben Haya ; or, as Pellicer suggests, from a corruption of Minaya. 

*i.e. "the Milleress.” 


20 


DON QUIXOTE. 


laborer,^ a neighbor of his, a poor man with a family, but v-ery 
well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this 
object he turned his horse’s head towards his village, and 
E-ocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so 
briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth. 

He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right 
there seemed to come feeble cries as of some one in distress, 
and the instant he heard them he exclaimed, Thanks be to 
Heaven for the favor it accords me, that it so soon offers me an 
opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I have undertaken, and 
gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt, 
come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing 
my aid and protection ; ” and wheeling, he turned Eocinante 
in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had 
gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied 
to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist up- 
wards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the 
cries came. Hor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer 
was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with 
scoldings and commands, repeating, Your mouth shut and 
your eyes open ! ” while the youth made answer, I won’t do 
it again, master mine ; by God’s passion I won’t do it again, 
and I ’ll take more care of the flock another time.” 

Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry 
•voice, ‘‘ Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one 
who cannot defend himself ; mount your steed and take your 
lance ” (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which 
the mare was tied), and I will make you know that you are 
behaving as a coward.” The farmer, seeing before him this 
figure in full armor brandishing a lance over his head, gave 
himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, Sir Knight, 
this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me 
to watch a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so care- 
less that I lose one every day, and when I punish him for his 
carelessness and knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, 
to escape paying him the wages I owe him, and before God, and 
on my soul, he lies.” 

Lies before me, base clown ! ” said Don Quixote. By 

’ Labrador., the word used here to describe the status of Sancho, means, 
generally, a tiller of the soil, and includes farmers employing laborers, 
like Juan Haldudo the Kich, who is so described lower down, as well as those 
who tilled their land themselves or worked for others. Sancho was one of 
the latter class, as appears from a remark of his own in the Second Part. 


CHAPTER IV. 


21 


the sun that shines on us I have a mind to run you through 
mth this lance. Pay him at once without another word ; if 
not, by the God that rules us I will make an end of you, and 
annihilate you on the spot ; release him instantly.’’ 

The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his 
servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master 
owed him. 

He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don 
Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, 
and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did not 
want to die for it. 

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the 
oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not, 
so much ; for there were to be taken into account and deducted 
three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two 
blood-lettings when he was sick. 

‘‘ All that is very well,” said Don Quixote ; but let the 
shoes and the blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the 
blows you have given him without any cause ; for if he spoiled 
the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that 
of his body, and if the barber took blood from him when he 
was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound ; so on that 
score he owes you nothing.” 

The difficulty is. Sir Knight,^ that I have no money here ; let 
Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.” 

I go with him ! ” said the youth. “ Nay, God forbid ! no, 
senor, not for the world ; for once alone with me, he would 
flay me like a Saint Bartholomew.” 

He will do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote ; I 
have only to command, and he will obey me; and as he has 
sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, 
I leave him free, and I guarantee the payment.” 

Consider what you are saying, senor,” said the youth ; 

this master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any 
order of knighthood ; for he is Juan Haldudo the Eich, of 
Quintanar.” 

That matters little,” replied Don Quixote ; there may be 
Haldudos knights ; ^ moreover, every one is the son of his 
works.” ® 

* Cervantes now and then in dialogue does not specify the speaker, but 
the omissions are so rare that they are probably oversights, and I have 
generally supplied them. 

* Haldudos — wearers of long skirts. ^ Pj-qv. 112. 


22 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That is true/’ said Andres ; but this master of mine — 
of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of 
my sweat and labor ? ” 

I do not refuse, brother Andres,” said the farmer ; “ be 
good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the 
orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I 
have agreed, real by real, and perfumed.” ^ 

^^For the perfumery I excuse you,” said Don Quixote; 

give it to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied ; and see that 
you do as you have sworn ; if not, by the same oath I swear 
to come back and hunt you out and punish you ; and I shall 
find you though you should lie closer than a lizard. And if 
you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, 
that you may be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I 
am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of 
wrongs and injustices ; and so, God be with you, and keep in 
mind what you have promised and sworn under those penal- 
ties that have been already declared to you.” 

So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of 
reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he 
saw that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight, 
he turned to his boy Andres, and said, Come here, my son, 
I want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs 
has commanded me.” 

My oath on it,” said Andres, your worship will be well 
advised to obey the command of that good knight — may he 
live a thousand years — for, as he is a valiant and just judge, 
by Roque, ^ if you do not pay me, he will come back and do 
as he said.” 

My oath on it, too,” said the farmer ; but as I have a 
strong affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to 
add to the payment ; ” and seizing him by the arm, he tied 
him up to the oak again, where he gave him such a flogging 
that he left him for dead. 

Now, Master Andres,” said the farmer, call on the un- 
doer of wrongs ; you will find he won’t undo that, though I 
am not sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a 
good mind to flay you alive as you feared.” But at last he 

^"Perfumed” — a way of expressing completeness or perfection of 
condition. 

* An obscure oath, of which there is no satisfactory explanation as to 
who or what Roque was, whether the San Roque who gave the name to 
the town near Gibraltar, or some Manchegan celebrity. 


CHAPTER IV. 


23 


untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in 
order to put the sentence pronounced into execution. 

Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he 
would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha 
and tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would 
have to be repaid him sevenfold ; but for all that, he went off 
weeping, while his master stood laughing. 

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, 
thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he consid- 
ered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his 
knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect 
self-content, saying in a low voice, Well mayest thou this 
day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, 0 Dulcinea del 
Toboso, fairest of the fair ! since it has fallen to thy lot to 
hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a 
knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Man- 
cha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order 
of knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong 
and grievance that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpe- 
trated : who hath to-day plucked the rod from the hand of 
yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that tender 
child.’' 

He now came to a road branching in four directions, and 
immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where 
knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they 
should take. In imitation of them he halted for a while, 
and after having deeply considered it, he gave Eocinante his 
head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who fol- 
lowed out his first intention, which was to make straight for 
his own stable. After he had gone about two miles Don 
Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards 
appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk 
at Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their 
sunshades, with four servants mounted, and three muleteers 
on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when the 
fancy possessed him that this must be some new adventure ; 
and to help him to imitate as far as he could those passages ^ 
he had read of in his books, here seemed to come one made on 
purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty bear- 
ing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, 

* Not passages of the book, but passages of arms like that of Suera 
de Quinones on the bridge of Orbigo in the reign of John II. 


24 


DON QUIXOTE, 


got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and 
planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the 
approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered 
and held them to be ; and when they had come near enough to 
see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, All the 
world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world 
there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the 
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso/’ 

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the 
sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure 
and language at once guessed the craze of their owner ; they 
wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this 
confession that was demanded of them, and one of them, who 
was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to 
him, Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that 
you speak of ; show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as 
you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we 
will confess the truth that is on your part required of us.’^ 

‘‘ If I were to show her to you,^^ replied Don Quixote, what 
merit would you have in confessing a truth so manifest ? The 
essential point is that without seeing her you must believe, 
confess, affirm, swear, and defend it ; ^ else ye have to do with 
me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are ; and 
come ye on, one by one as the order of knighthood requires, 
or all together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed, 
here do I bide and await you, relying on the justice of the 
cause I maintain.” 

“ Sir Knight,” replied the trader, I entreat your worship 
in the name of this present company of princes, that, to save 
us from charging our consciences with the confession of a thing 
we have never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to 
the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and 
Estremadura,^ your worship will be pleased to show us some 
portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of 

* It is strange that this passage should have escaped the notice of those 
ingenious critics whose mania it is to hunt for hidden meanings in Don 
Quixote. With a moderate amount of acumen it ought to be easy to ex- 
tract from these words a manifest " covert attack ” on Church, Faith, and 
Dogma. 

* The Alcarria is a bare, thinly populated district, in the upper valley 
of the Tagus, stretching from Guadalajara to the confines of Aragon. 
Estremadura is the most backward of all the provinces of Spain. In 
elevating these two regions into the rank of empires, the waggish trader 
falls in with the craze of Don Quixote. 


CHAPTER IV, 


25 


wheat ; for by the thread one gets at the ball,^ and in this way 
we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and 
pleased ; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed with you 
that even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye, 
and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would 
nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favor that 
you desire/^ 

She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,” said Don 
Quixote, burning with rage, nothing of the kind, I say, only 
ambergris and civet in cotton ; ^ nor is she one-eyed or hump 
backed, but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle : ^ but ye 
must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty 
like that of my lady.” 

And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the 
one who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck 
had not contrived that E-ocinante should stumble midway and 
come down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. 
Down went Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along 
the ground for some distance ; and when he tried to rise he 
was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, 
helmet, and the weight of his old armor ; and all the while he 
was struggling to get up, he kept saying, Fly not, cowards 
and caitiffs ! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse’s, am I 
stretched here.” 

One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have 
had much good nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man 
blustering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him 
an answer on his ribs ; and coming up to him he seized his 
lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one of them he be- 
gan so to belabor our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and 
in spite of his armor, he milled him like a measure of wheat. 
His masters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him 
alone, but the muleteer’s blood was up, and he did not care to 
drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and, 

^ Prov. 114. The ball, i.e., that on which it is wound. 

® Civet was the perfume most in request at the time, and was imported 
packed in cotton. 

^ Mas derecho que un huso — " straighter than a spindle ” — is a popular 
phrase in use to this day. The addition of "Guadarrama” Clemencin 
explains by saying that spindles were made in great quantities of the 
beech wood that grew on the Guadarrama Sierra. Fermin Caballero 
( Pericia GeogrAfica de Cervantes') holds that the reference is to the pine 
trees on the Guadarrama Pass. 


26 


DON QUIXOTE, 


gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance, he finished 
with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the 
storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threatening 
heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they seemed to 
him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders continued 
their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the poor 
fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself 
alone made another effort to rise ; but if he was unable when 
whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed 
and well-nigh knocked to pieces ? And yet he esteemed him- 
self fortunate, as it seemed to him that this was a regular 
knight-errant’s mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault 
of his horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise 
was beyond his power. 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’s MISHAP IS 
CONTINUED. 

Einding, then, that in fact he could not move, he bethought 
himself of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to 
think of some passage in his books, and his craze brought to 
his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when 
Carloto left him wounded on the mountain side,^ a story known 
by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men, and 
lauded and even believed by the old folk ; and for all that not 
a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him 
to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making 
a show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and 
with feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded 
knight of the wood is said to have uttered : 

■' Where art thou, lady mine ; that thou 
My sorrow dost not rue ? 

Thou canst not know it, lady mine. 

Or else thou art untrue.” 

*The subject of the old ballad — De Mantua salio el Marques (Duran’s 
Romancer o General^ No. 355) ; a chanson de geste^ indeed, rather than a 
ballad, as it runs to something over 800 lines. Pellicer wrongly assigns 
it to Geronimo Trevino, a sixteenth century author. It is in the Antwerp 
Cancionero of 1550 and the Saragossa Silva of the same date. 


CHAPTER V. 


27 


And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines : 

O noble Marquis of Mantua, 

My Uncle and liege lord ! ” 

As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there 
happened to come by a peasant from his own village, a neigh- 
bor of his, who had been with a load of wheat to the mill, and 
he, seeing the man stretched there, came up to him and asked 
him who he was and what was the matter with him that he 
complained so dolefully. 

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis 
of Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go 
on with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, 
and of the loves of the Emperor’s son and his wife, all exactly 
as the ballad sings it. 

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and 
relieving him of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, 
he wiped his face, which was covered with dust, and as soon 
as he had done so he recognized him and said, Senor Don 
Quixada ” (for so he appears to have been called when he was 
in his senses and had not yet changed from a quiet country 
gentleman into a knight-errant), who has brought your wor- 
ship to this pass ? ” But to all questions the other only went 
on with his ballad. 

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his 
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he 
could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then 
contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no little 
difiB.culty hoisted him upon his ass, which seemed to him to 
be the easiest mount for him ; and collecting the arms, even 
to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Bocinante, and 
leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the 
road for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don 
Quixote was talking. Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what 
with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and 
from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more 
he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have 
been only the devil himself that put into his head tales to match 
his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought 
himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Ante- 
quera, Eodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him 
away to his castle ; so that when the peasant again asked him 


28 


DON QUIXOTE, 


how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same 
words and phrases that the captive Abencerrage gave to Rodrigo 
de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the Diana’’ of 
Jorge de Montemayor ^ where it is written, applying it to his own 
case so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that 
he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense ; from which, how- 
ever, he came to the conclusion that his neighbor was mad, 
and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the weari- 
someness of this harangue of Don Quixote’s ; who, at the end 
of it, said, Senor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship 
must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the 
lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, 
and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this 
world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.” 

To this the peasant answered, “ Senor — sinner that I 
am ! — can not your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo 
de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso 
your neighbor, and that your worship is neither Baldwin nor 
Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor Quixada ? ” 

I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, and I know 
that I may be not only those I have named, but all the Twelve 
Peers of France and even all the Nine Worthies, since my 
achievements surpass all that they have done all together and 
each of them on his own account.” 

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the 
village just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant 
waited until it was a little later that the belabored gentleman 
might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it 
was what seemed to him the proper time he entered the village 
and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found all in con- 
fusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who 
were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was 
saying to them in a loud voice, Senor licentiate Pero Perez,” 
for so the curate was called, what does your worship 
think can have befallen my master ? it is six days now 
since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the 
buckler, lance, or armor. Miserable me ! I am certain of it, 
and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed 

' From the words used by Cervantes he seems to have known or sus- 
pected that Montemayor was not the author of the romantic story of 
Abindarraez and Xarifa. It was inserted in the second edition of the 
Diana,, the year of the author’s death, and it had previously appeared as 
a separate novel at Toledo. 


CHAPTER V. 


29 


books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading 
so constantly, have upset his reason ; for now I remember 
having often heard him saying to himself that he would turn 
knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of adventures. 
To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have brought 
to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in all 
La Mancha ! ’’ 

The niece said the same, and, indeed, more : You must 
know. Master Nicholas’’ — for that was the name of the 
barber — it was often my uncle’s way to stay two days and 
nights together poring over these unholy books of mis ventures, 
after which he would fling the book away and snatch up his 
sword and fall to slashing the walls ; and when he was tired 
out he would say he had killed four giants like four towers ; 
and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he 
said was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle ; 
and then he would drink a great jug of cold water and become 
calm and quiet, saying that this water was a most precious 
potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of 
his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself 
for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that 
you might put a stop to them before things had come to this 
pass, and burn all these accursed books — for he has a great 
number — that richly deserve to be burned like heretics.” 

So say I too,” said the curate, and by my faith to-mor- 
row shall not pass without public judgment upon them, and 
may they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those 
that read them to behave as my good friend seems to have 
behaved.” 

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at 
last what was the matter with his neighbor, so he began 
calling aloud, Open, your worships, to Senor Baldwin and 
to Senor the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, 
and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Eod- 
rigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.” 

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recog- 
nized their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dis- 
mounted from the ass because he could not, they ran to 
embrace him. 

Hold ! ” said he, for I am badly wounded through my 
horse’s fault ; carry me to bed, and if possible send for the 
wise Urganda to cure and see to my wounds.” 


30 


DON QUIXOTE. 


See there ! plague on it ! ’’ cried the housekeeper at this : 
did not my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master 
went lame of ? To bed with your worship at once, and we 
will contrive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. 
A curse I say once more, and a hundred times more, on those 
books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a 
pass.’’ 

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for 
his wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises 
from having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when 
in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be 
found on earth. 

“ So, so ! ” said the curate, are there giants in the dance ? 
By the sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before 
the day is over.” 

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only 
answer to all was — give him something to eat, and leave 
him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did 
so, and the curate questioned the peasant at great length 
as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him all, 
and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the 
way home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to 
do what he did the next day, which was to summon his 
friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don 
Quixote’s house. 


CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE DIVERTIXG AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE 
CURATE AND THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR 
INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN. 

He was still sleeping ; so the curate asked ^ the niece for the 
keys of the room where the books, the authors of all the mis- 
chief, were, and right willingly she gave them. They all went 
in, the housekeeper with them, and found more than a hundred 
volumes of big books very well bound, and some other small 

* In the original the passage runs : " Who iras even still sleeping. He 
asked the niece for the keys,” etc. It is a minor instance of Cervantes’ 
disregard of the ordinary laws of composition, and also a proof that at 
this stage of the work he had not originally contemplated a division into 
chapters. 


CHAPTER VI. 


31 


ones.^ The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned 
about and ran out of the room, and came back immediately 
with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, Here, 
your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room ; donT leave 
any magician of the many there are in these books to bewitch 
us in revenge for our design of banishing them from the 
world/’ 

The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, 
and he directed the barber to give him the books one by one 
to see what they were about, as there might be some to be 
found among them that did not deserve the penalty of fire. 

“ No,” said the niece, “ there is no reason for showing mercy 
to any of them ; they have every one of them done mischief ; 
better fling them out of the window into the court and make a 
pile of them and set fire to them ; or else carry them into the 
yard, and there a bonfire can be made without the smoke giv- 
ing any annoyance.” ^ The housekeeper said the same, so. 
eager were they for the slaughter of those innocents, but the 
curate would not -agree to it without first reading at any rate 
the titles. 

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was the 
four books of Amadis of Gaul.” “ This seems a mysterious 
thing,” said the curate, ‘‘for, as I have heard said, this was 
the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and from this all 
the others derive their birth and origin ; ® so it seems to me 
that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames as the 
founder of so vile a sect.” 

“ Nay, sir,” said the barber, “ I, too, have heard say that 
this is the best of all the books of this kind that have been 
written, and so, as something singular in its line, it ought to 
be pardoned.” 

‘ The romances of chivalry were, with not more than two or three ex- 
ceptions, produced in the folio form, while the books of poetry, the pas- 
torals, the cancioneros, and romancer os., were either in small quarto or 
much more commonly in small octavo corresponding in size with our 
duodecimo. 

* The court the niece speaks of, was the patio or open space in the mid- 
dle ot the house ; the corral or yard was on the outside. 

® The curate was quite correct in his idea that Amadis of Gaul was the 
parent of the chivalry literature, but not in his statement that it was the 
first book of the kind printed in Spain, for it is not likely it was printed 
before Tirant lo Blanch., Oliveros de Castilla., or the Carcel de Amor. 
The earliest known edition was printed in Rome in 1519, but there can be 
no doubt that this is a reprint of a Spanish edition, of perhaps even an 
earlier date than 1510, which has been given as that of the first edition. 


32 


DON QUIXOTE. 


True/’ said the curate ; “ and for that reason let its life 
be spared for the present. Let us see that other which is next 
to it.” 

It is/’ said the barber, the ^ Sergas de Esplandian, the 
lawful son of Amadis of Gaul.’” ^ 

Then verily,” said the curate, the merit of the father 
must not be put down to the account of the son. Take it, 
mistress housekeeper ; open the window and fling it into the 
yard and lay the foundation of the pile for the bonfire we are 
to make.” 

The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the 
worthy ‘‘ Esplandian ” went flying into the yard to await with 
all patience the fire that was in store for him. 

Proceed,” said the curate. 

‘‘ This that comes next,” said the barber, “ is ^ Amadis of 
Greece,’ ^ and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the 
same Amadis lineage.” 

“ Then to the yard with the whole of them,” said the curate ; 
“ for to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the 
shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and in- 
volved discourses of his author, I would burn with them the 
father who begot me if he were going about in the guise of a 
knight-errant.” 

‘‘ I am of the same mind,” said the barber. 

And so am I,” added the niece. 

“ In that case,” said the housekeeper, here, into the yard 
with them ! ” 

They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, 
she spared herself the staircase, and flung them down out of 
the window. 

“ Who is that tub there ? ” said the curate. 

“ This,” said the barber, is ‘ Don Olivante de Laura.’ ” f 

* Las Sergas (i.e. las ipya — the achievements) de Esplandian (1521) 
forms the fifth book of the Amadis Series, and is the composition of Mon- 
talvo himself, as is also, apparently, the fourth book of Amadis of Gaul. 
He only claims to have edited the first three. 

'Amadis of Greece., by Feliciano de Silva (1535), forms the ninth book 
of the Amadis Series. Pintiquiniestra was Queen of Sobradisa, and Dari- 
nel was a shepherd and wrestler of Alexandria. The Spanish romances 
of " the lineage of Amadis ” are twelve in number, and there are besides 
doubtful members of the family in Italian and French. 

Olivante de Laura, by Antonio de Torquemada, appeared first at Bar- 
celona in 1564. Gayangos suggests that Cervantes must have been think- 
ing of a later quarto or octavo edition, for the original folio is not bo 


CHAPTER VI. 


33 


The author of that book,” said the curate, was the same 
that wrote ‘ The Garden of Flowers,’ and truly there is no 
deciding which of the two books is the more truthful, or, to 
put it better, the less lying ; all I can say is, send this one 
into the yard for a swaggering fool.” 

This that follows is ‘ Florismarte of Hircania,’ ” said the 
barber.^ 

Sefior Florismarte here ? ” said the curate ; then by my 
faith he must take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his 
marvellous birth and visionary adventures, for the stiffness and 
dryness of his style deserve nothing else ; into the yard with 
him and the other, mistress housekeeper.” 

With all my heart, senor,” said she, and executed the order 
with great delight. 

This,” said the barber, is ^ The Knight Platir.’ ” ^ 

An old book that,” said the curate, ‘‘ but I find no reason 
for clemency in it ; send it after the others without appeal ; ” 
which was done. 

Another book w'as opened, and they saw it was entitled. 

The Knight of the Cross.” 

For the sake of the holy name this book has,” said the 
curate, “ its ignorance might be excused ; but then, they say, 
‘ behind the cross there ’s the devil ; ’ to the fire with it.” ^ 

Taking down another book, the barber said, ‘‘ This is ^ The 
Mirror of Chivalry.’ ” ^ 

exceptionally stout as the description in the text implies. The Garden of 
Flowers (1575), a treatise of wonders natural and supernatural, was 
translated into English in 1600, as The Spanish Manderille., a title which 
may seem to justify the curate's criticism; but it does not come with a 
good grace from Cervantes, who made free use of the book in the First 
Part of Persiles and Sigismunda^ and in the Second Part of Don Quixote. 
The book is really an entertaining one. 

* The correct title is Historia del muy Animoso y Esforzado Principe 
Felixmarte de Hircania., but the hero is also called Florismarte. It was 
by Melchor Ortega de Ubeda, and appeared in 1556. 

2 Platir is the fourth book of the Palmerin Series. The hero is the son 
of Primaleon, and grandson of Palmerin de Oliva. Its author is unknown. 
It appeared first in 1533. 

^ The Knight of the Cross appeared in two parts : the first, under the 
title of Lepolemo., by an unknown author, in 1543; the second, with the 
achievements of Leandro el Bel tfie son of Lepolemo, by Pedro de Luxan, 
in 1563. "Behind the Cross,” etc., Prov. 75, was evidently a favorite 
proverb with Cervantes. 

* The Mirror of Chivalry — Espejo de Cahallerias — was published at 
Seville in four parts, 1533-50. Next to the history of Charlemagne and 

VoL. I. — 3 


34 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I know his worship,” said the curate ; that is where 
Senor Eeinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and com- 
rades, greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of 
Prance with the veracious historian Turpin ; however, I am not 
for condemning them to more than perpetual banishment, be- 
cause, at any rate, they have some share in the inventioai of 
the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet 
Ludovico Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, 
and speaking any language but his own, I shall show no respect 
whatever ; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him 
upon my head.” ^ 

“ Well, I have him in Italian,” said the barber, but I do 
not understand him.” 

Nor would it be well that you should understand him,” 
said the curate, and on that score we might have excused the 
Captain ^ if he had not brought him into Spain and turned him 
into Castilian. He robbed him of a great deal of his natural 
force, and so do all those who try to turn books written in verse 
into another language, for, with all the pains they take and all 
the cleverness they show, they never can reach the level of the 
originals as they were first produced. In short, I say that tnis 
book, and all that may be found treating of those French 
affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, 
until after more consideration it is settled what is to be done 
with them ; excepting always one ^ Bernardo del Carpio ’ 
that is going about, and another called ^ Koncesvalles ; ’ for 
these, if they come into my hands, shall pass into those of 

the Twelve Peers, it was the most popular of the Carlovingian series of 
romances. It is creditable to Cervantes as a critic that he should have 
mentioned Boiardo as he does, at a time when it was the fashion to regard 
the Orlando Innamorato as a rude and semi-barbarous production, only 
endurable in the rifacimento of Ludovico Domenichi. 

^ An Oriental mode of showing respect for a document. 

* Geronimo Jimenez de Urrea, whose translation of Ariosto into Spanish 
was first printed at Antwerp in 1549. This is not the only passage in 
which Cervantes declares against translation. In chapter Ixii. of the 
Second Part he puts his objection still more strongly, and there extends it 
to translation of prose. And yet of all great writers there is not one who 
is under such obligations to translation as Cervantes. The influence of 
Homer and Virgil would be scarcely less than it is if they had never been 
translated ; Shakespeare and Milton wrote in a language destined to be- 
come the most widely read on the face of the globe, and no reader of any 
culture needs an interpreter for Moliere or Le Sage. But how would 
Cervantes have fared in the world if, according to his own principles, he 
\iad been confined to his native Castilian? 


CHAPTER VI. 


85 


the housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any re- 
prieve.’’ ^ 

To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it 
as right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so 
stanch to the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would 
not for the world say anything opposed to them. Opening 
another book he saw it was Palmerin de Oliva,” and beside 
it was another called Palmerin of England,” seeing which 
the licentiate said, ‘^Let the Olive be made firewood of at 
once and burned until no ashes even are left ; and let that 
Palm of England be kept and preserved as a thing that 
stands alone, and let such another case be made for it as 
that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius 
and set aside for the safe keeping of the words of the poet 
Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority for two reasons, 
first because it is very good, and secondly because it is said 
to have been written by a wise and witty king of Portugal.^ 
All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda * are excellent 
and of admirable contrivance, and the language is polished 
and clear, studying and observing the style befitting the 
speaker with propriety and judgment. So then, provided it 
seems good to you. Master Nicholas, I say let this and 
^ Amadis of Gaul ’ be remitted the penalty of fire, and as 
for all the rest, let them perish without further question or 
query.” 

Nay, gossip,” said the barber, ^^for this that I have here 
is the famous ‘ Don Belianis.’ ” ^ 

* The condemned books are the History of the deeds of Bernardo del 
Carpio^ by Augustin Alonso of Salamanca (Toledo, 1585) ; and the Fa- 
mous Battle of Roncesvalles^ by Francisco Garrido de Villena (Valencia, 
1555). 

2 Palmerin de Oliva^ the founder of the Palmerin Series of Romances, 
was first printed at Salamanca in 1511. It is said to have been written 
by a lady of Ailgustobriga (i.e. Burgos, according to some, but more 
probably Ciudad Rodrigo), but nothing certain is known of the author. 
Palmerin de Inglaterra^ like Amadis^ was until lately supposed to be, 
as Cervantes supposed it, of Portuguese origin; but the question was 
settled a few years ago by Vincente Salva, who discovered a Toledo edi- 
tion of 1547, twenty years earlier than the Portuguese edition on which 
the claims of Francisco de Moraes, or of John II , rested. An acrostic 
gives the name of the author, Luis Hurtado. 

* Miraguarda is not the name of the Castle, but of the lady who lived in 
it, and whose charms were the cause of the adventures. 

< Belianis de Grecia^ already mentioned in the first chapter as one of 
Don Quixote’s special studies. 


86 


DON QUIXOTE. 


said tlie curate, “that and the second, third, and 
fourth parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge 
their excess of bile, and they must be cleared of all that 
stuff about the Castle of Fame and other greater affectations, 
to which end let them be allowed the over-seas term,^ and, 
according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice be meted 
out to them ; and in the meantime, gossip, do you keep them 
in your house and let no one read them/’ 

“ With all my heart,” said the barber ; and not caring to tire 
himself with reading more books of chivalry, he told the house- 
keeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the yard. 
It was not said to one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed 
burning them more than weaving the broadest and finest web 
that could be ; and seizing about eight at a time, she flung them 
out of the window. 

In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the 
barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found 
it said, “ History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco.” 

“ God bless me ! ” said the curate with a shout, “ ‘ Tirante 
el Blanco ’ here ! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I 
have found a treasury of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. 
Here is Don Kyrieleison of Montalvan, a valiant knight, and 
his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight Fonseca, with 
the battle the bold Tirante fought with the mastiff, and the 
witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves and 
wiles of the widow Beposada, and the empress in love with the 
squire Hipdlito — in truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the 
best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die 
in their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great 
deal more of which there is nothing in all the other books. 
Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing 
such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take 
it home with you and read it, and you will see that what I have 
said is true.” ^ 

^ The " over-seas term ” was the allowance of time granted in the case 
of persons beyond the seas, when sued or indicted, to enable them to 
appear and show cause why judgment should not be given against them. 

* Tirante el Blanco is the title of the translation into Castilian of the 
romance of Tirant lo Blanch^ first published in Valencian at Valencia in 
1490. Joanot Martorell, who is said to have translated it from English 
into Portuguese and thence into Valencian, was no doubt the author. 
Only three copies are known to exist, one in the University at Valencia, 
another in the College of the Sapienza in Rome, and the third in the 
British Museum. The Castilian version appeared at Valladolid in 1511. 


CHAPTER VI. 


37 


As you will,” said the barber ; “ but what are we to do with 
these little books that are left ? ” 

These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,” said the curate ; 
and opening one he saw it was the Diana” of Jorge de Mon- 
temayor, and, supposing all the others to be of the same sort, 
these,” he said, do not deserve to be burned like the others, 
for they neither do nor can do the mischief the books of chivalry 
have done,' being books of entertainment that can hurt no one.” 

Ah, senor ! ” said the niece, your worship had better 
order these to be burned as well as the others ; for it would be 
no wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my 
uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and 
range the woods and fields singing and piping ; or, what would 
be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is an incurable and 
infectious malady.” 

The damsel is right,” said the curate, and it will be well 
to put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend’s 
way. To begin, then, with the ^ Diana ’ of Montemayor. I am of 
opinion it should not be burned, but that it should be cleared 
of all that about the sage Felicia and the magic water, and of 
almost all the longer pieces of verse ; let it keep, and welcome, 
its prose and the honor of being the first of books of the 
kind.” 

This that comes next,” said the barber, is the ^ Diana,’ 
entitled the ^ Second Part, by the Salamancan,’ and this other 
has the same title, and its author is Gil Polo.” 

As for that of the Salamancan,” replied the curate, let it 
go to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let 
Gil Polo’s be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself ; ^ but 
get on, gossip, and make haste, for it is growing late.” 

This book,” said the barber, opening another, is the ten 

Don Pascual de Gayangos is in doubt whether the curate’s eulogy is to 
be taken as ironical or serious, but rather inclines to the belief that Cer- 
vantes meant to praise the book. It would be rash to differ with such an 
authority, otherwise I should say that the laudation is rather too boister- 
ously expressed and too like the extravagant eulogy of Lo Frasso farther 
on, to be sincerely meant. 

* Los Siete Lihros de la Diana de Jorge de Montemayor. Impreso en 
Valencia., 4to. The first edition is undated, and from the dedication 
appears to have been printed in the author’s lifetime. He died in 1561, 
in which year the second edition, with additions, appeared. ( V. note 1, 
page 28.) The Diana was the first and best of the Spanish pastoral 
romances, the taste for which was created by Sannazaro’s Arcadia. The 
Salamancan was Alonso Perez, who published a continuation of the 
Diana at Alcala de Henares in 1564, but Gil Polo’s, printed the same year 


38 


DON QUIXOTE. 


books of the ^ Fortune of Love/ written by Antonio de Lo^ 
fraso, a Sardinian poet.’’ 

By the orders I have received/’ said the curate, since 
Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and 
poets have been poet^, so drolband absurd a book as this has 
never been written, and in its way it is the best and the most 
singular of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and 
he who has not read it may be sure he has never read what is 
delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of 
having found it than if they had given me a cassock of Flor- 
ence stuff.” ^ 

He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber 
went on, These that come next are ‘ The Shepherd of Iberia,* 
‘The Nymphs of Henares,’ and ‘The Enlightenment of Jeal- 
ousy.’ ” ^ 

“ Then all we have to do,” said the curate, “ is to hand them 
over to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not 
why, or we shall never have done.” 

“ This next is the ‘ Pastor de Filida.’ ” 

“ No Pastor that,” said the curate, “ but a highly polished 
courtier ; let it be preserved as a precious jewel.” ® 

“ This large one here,” said the barber, “ is called ‘ The 
Treasury of various Poems.’ ” 

“ If there were not so many of them,” said the curate, 
“ they would be more relished : this book must be weeded and 
cleansed of certain vulgarities which it has with its excel- 

rt Valencia, has been generally preferred. The pun on Polo and Apolo 
is not so obvious in English. An excellent English translation of all 
three by Bartholomew Yong was published in 1598. 

^ The Fortuna d'Amor^ por Antonio de lo Frasso^ Military Sardo^ ap- 
peared at Barcelo*na in 1573. In the Viage del Parnaso Cervantes treats 
the book in the same bantering strain, which misled Pedro de Pineda, one 
of the editors of Lord Carteret’s Quixote^ and induced him to bring out a 
new edition in 1740. The book is an utterly worthless one, and highly 
prized by collectors. 

* The books here referred to are the Pastor de Iheria^ by Bernardo de la 
Vega (Seville, 1591) ; the Nimphas y Pastores de Henares^ by Bernardo 
Gonzalez dv Bovadilla (Alcala de Henares, 1587) ; and the Desengano de 
Zelos^ by Bartolme Lopes de Enciso (Madrid, 1586). 

^ The Pastor de Filida (Madrid, 1582), one of the best of the pastorals, 
was by Luis Galvez de Montalvo of Guadalajara, a retainer of the great 
Mendoza family, and apparently an intimate personal friend of Cervantes, 
who, under the name of Tirsi, is referred to in the pastoral as a claris- 
simo ingenio worthy of being mentioned vUb Ercilla. Montalvo, in 
return, is introduced under the name of Siralvo into the Galatea of 
Cervantes, to which he contributed a complimentary sonnet. 


CHAPTER VI. 


39 


]ences ; let it be preserved because the author is a friend of 
mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and loftier works 
that he has written.’’ ^ 

“ This,” continued the barber, is the ‘ Cancionero ’ of 
Lopez de Maldonado.” ^ 

The author of that book, too,” said the curate, is a great 
friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the 
admiration of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of 
his voice that he enchants when he chants them: it gives 
rather too much of its eclogues, but what is good was never yet 
plentiful : ^ let it be kept with those that have been set apart. 
But what book is that next it ? ” 

The ^ Galatea ’ of Miguel de Cervantes,” said the barber. 

“ That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of 
mine, and to my knowledge he has had more experience in 
reverses than in verses. His book has some good invention in 
it, it presents us with something but brings nothing to a con- 
clusion : we must wait for the Second Part it promises : per- 
haps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full 
measure of grace that is now denied it ; and in the meantime 
do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters.” ^ 
Very good,” said the barber; and here come three to- 
gether, the ^ Araucana ’ of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ^ Aus- 
triada ’ of Juan Rufo, Justice of Cordova, and the ^ Montserrate ’ 
of Christobal de Virues, the Valencian poet.” ^ 

’ Tesoro de varias Poesias.^ cornpuesto por Pedro de Padilla (Madrid, 
1580). The author is one of those praised by Cervantes in the “ Canto 
de Caliope ” in the Galatea. 

2 Lopez de Maldonado, whose Cancionero appeared at Madrid in 1586, 
is another of the poets praised in the Galatea. 

^ Prov. 26. 

'* The play upon words in the original is " more versed in misfortunes 
than in verses.” This introduction of himself and his forgotten pastoral 
is Cervantes all over in its tone of playful stoicism with a certain quiet 
self-assertion. It shows, moreover, pretty clearly, that until Bon Quixote 
had made the author’s name known, the Galatea had remained unnoticed. 

^ These three are examples of Spanish epic poetry. The Araucana ot 
Ercilla (Madrid, 1569, 1578, 1590) is, next to the Poem of the Cid., the 
best effort in that direction in the language. The Austriada., which 
appeared first at Madrid in 1584, deals with the life and achievements of 
Don John of Austria, but it was probably the memory of Lepanto rather 
than the merits of the poem that made Cervantes give it a place here. 
The Montserrate of the dramatist Viru6s (Madrid, 1588) had for its sub- 
ject the repulsive Oriental legend which became popular in Spain with 
Garin the hermit of Monserrat for its hero, and which M. G. Lewis made 
the foundation of his famous romance, The Monk. 


40 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ These three books/’ said the curate, are the best that have 
been written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may com- 
pare with the most famous in Italy ; let them be preserved as 
the richest treasures of poetry that Spain possesses.” 

The curate was tired and would not look into any more 
books, and so he decided that, contents uncertified,” all the 
rest should be burned ; but just then the barber held open one, 
called The Tears of Angelica.” 

“ I should have shed tears myself,” said the curate when he 
heard the title, “ had I ordered that book to be burned, for its 
author was one of the famous poets of the world, not to say of 
Spain, and was very happy in the translation of some of Ovid’s 
fables.” ^ 


CHAPTEE VII. 

OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON 
QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 

At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, Here, here, 
valiant knights ! here is need for you to put forth the might 
of your strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mas- 
tery in the tourney ! ” Called away by this noise and outcry, 
they proceeded no farther with the scrutiny of the remaining 
books, and so it is thought that The Carolea,” “ The Lion of 
Spain,” and The Deeds of the Emperor,” written by Don Luis 
de Avila, went to the fire unseen and unheard ; for no doubt 
they were among those that remained, and perhaps if the curate 
had seen them they would not have undergone so severe a sen- 
tence.” ^ 

* The anti-climax here almost equals that famous one of Waller’s* 

" Under the tropic is our language spoke, 

And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.” 

The book referred to was entitled simply the Angelica by Luis Barahona 
de Soto (Madrid, 1586). In his praise of this poem we have one more 
instance of Cervantes’ loyalty to a friend getting the better of his critical 
judgment. 

2 The books referred to are the Carolea of Geronimo Sempere (1560), 
which deals with the victories of Charles V. ; the Leon de Esparia^ by 
Pedro de la Vezilla, a poem on the history of the city of Leon; and, 
probably, the Carlo Famoso of Louis Zapata, for there is no book known 
with the title of The Deeds of the Emperor^ and the work of Avila is 
simply a prose commentary on the wars against the Protestants of Ger- 
many. 


CHAPTER VII. 


41 


When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, 
and was still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all 
round, as wide awake as if he had never slept. 

They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and 
when he had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he 
said to him, Of a truth, Sefior Archbishop Turpin,^ it is a 
great disgrace for us who call ourselves the Twelve Peers, so 
carelessly to allow the knights of the Court to gain the victory 
in this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off the 
honor on the three former days.’’ 

Hush, gossip,” said the curate ; please God, the luck may 
turn, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow ; ^ for the 
present let your worship have a care of your health, for it 
seems to me that you are over-fatigued, if not badly wounded.” 

Wounded no,” said Don Quixote, but bruised and bat- 
tered no doubt, for that bastard Don Poland has cudgelled me 
with the trunk of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he 
sees that I alone rival him in his achievements. But I should 
not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did he not pay me for 
it in spite of all his enchantments as soon as I rise from this 
bed. For the present let them bring me something to eat, for 
that, I feel, is what will be more to my purpose, and leave it 
to me to avenge myself.” 

They did as he wished ; they gave him something to eat, 
and once more he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his 
madness. 

That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books 
that were in the yard and in the whole house ; and some must 
have been consumed that deserved preservation in everlasting 
archives, but their fate and the laziness of the examiner did 
not permit it, and so in them was verified the proverb that 
sometimes the innocent suffer for the guilty.^ 

One of the remedies which the curate and the barber im- 
mediately applied to their friend’s disorder was to wall up 
and plaster the room where the books were, so that when he 
got up he should not find them (possibly the cause being re- 

* Turpin (or Tilpin), Charlemagne’s chaplain, and Archbishop of 
Rheims : according to the Chanson de Roland., one of those slain at 
Roncesvalles ; but also claimed as author of the Chronicle of Charlemagne., 
which, however, was probably not composed before the end of the elev- 
enth or beginning of the twelfth century. He died in the year of the 
Roncesvalles rout, 778. 

2 Prov. 188. 


* Prov. 165. 


42 


DON QUIXOTE. 


moved, the effect might cease), and they might say that a 
magician had carried them off, room and all; and this was 
done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, 
and the first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and 
not finding the room where he had left it, he wandered from 
side to side looking for it. He came to the place where the 
door used to be, and tried it with his hands, and turned and 
twisted his eyes in every direction without saying a word ; but 
after a good while he asked his housekeeper whereabouts was 
the room that held his books. 

The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in 
what she was to answer, said, What room or what nothing is 
it that your worship is looking for ? There are neither room 
nor books in this house now, for the devil himself has carried 
all away.’’ 

It was not the devil,” said the niece, but a magician who 
came on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this, 
and dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the 
room, and what he did there I know not, but after a little 
while he made off, flying through the roof, and left the house 
full of smoke ; and when we went to see what he had done 
we saw neither book nor room : but we remember very well, 
the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said 
in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the owner 
of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house 
that would be discovered by and by : he said too that his name 
was the Sage Munaton.” 

He must have said Friston,” ^ said Don Quixote. 

I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,” 
said the housekeeper, I only know that his name ended with 
<ton.’” 

So it does,” said Don Quixote, and he is a sage magician, 
a great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he 
knows by his arts and lore that in process of time I am to en- 
gage in single combat with a knight whom he befriends and 
that I am to conquer, and he will be unable to prevent it ; 
and for this reason he endeavors to do me all the ill turns 
that he can ; but I promise him it will be hard for him to 
oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven.” 

Who doubts that ? ” said the niece ; but, uncle, who 
mixes you up in these quarrels ? Would it not be better to 

* Friston, a magician, the reputed author of Belianis de Grecia. 


CHAPTER VIL 


43 


remain at peace in your own house instead of roaming the 
world looking for better bread than ever came of wheat/ 
never reflecting that many go for wool and come back 
shorn ? ^ 

Oh, niece of mine,” replied Don Quixote, how much 
astray art thou in thy reckoning ; ere they shear me I shall 
have plucked away and stripped off the beards of all who 
would dare to touch only the tip of a hair of mine.” 

The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as 
they saw that his anger was kindling. 

In short, then, he remained at hom^e fifteen days very quietly 
without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his 
former delusions, and during this time he held lively discus- 
sions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the 
point he maintained, that knights-errant were what the world 
stood most in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished 
the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes con- 
tradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not 
observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring 
hirn to reason. 

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm laborer, a 
neighbor of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be 
given to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his 
pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and with such per. 
suasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his 
mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. 
Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be 
ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an ad- 
venture might occur that might win an island in the twink- 
ling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and 
the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the laborer was called) 
left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his 
neighbor. Don Quixote next set about getting some money ; 
and selling one thing and pawning another, and making a 
bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He 
provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a 

* Prov. 171. Buscar pan de irastrigo : there is some difference of 
opinion as to the meaning of trastrigo, but it seems on the whole more 
probable that it means wheat of such superlative quality as to be unattain- 
able ; at any rate, the proverb is used in reference to seeking things that 
are out of reach. 

*Prov. 124. A very old proverb, a» old at least as the poem of Fernan 
Gonzalez. 


44 


DON QUIXOTE. 


loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as 
best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and 
hour he meant to set out, that he might provide himself 
with what he thought most needful. Above all, he charged 
him to take alforjas * with him. The other said he would, 
and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as 
he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, 
Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call 
to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire 
mounted on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his mem- 
ory. For all that, however, he determined to take him, 
intending to furnish him with a more honorable mount 
when a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the 
horse of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Him- 
self he provided with shirts and such other things as he 
could, according to the advice the host had given him; all 
which being settled and done, without taking leave, Sancho 
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his house- 
keeper and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from 
the village one night, and made such good way in the course 
of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from dis- 
covery, even should search be made for them. 

Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch with his alforjas 
and bota,^ and longing to see himself soon governor of the 
island his master had promised him. Don Quixote decided 
upon taking the same route and road he had taken on his 
first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, which he 
travelled with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for, 
as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them 
obliquely, the heat did not distress them. 

And now said Sancho Panza to his master, Your worship 
will take care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the 
island you have promised me, for be it ever so big I ’ll be 
equal to governing it.” 

To which Don Quixote replied, “ Thou must know, friend 
Sancho Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with 
the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of 

^Alforjas — a sort of double wallet serving for saddle-bags, but more 
frequently carried slung across the shoulder. 

2 The hota is the leathern wine-bag which is as much a part of the 
Spanish wayfarer’s paraphernalia as the alforjas. It cannot, of course, 
be properly translated " bottle.” 


CHAPTER ril. 


45 


the islands or kingdoms they won,^ and I am determined that 
there shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom ; on 
the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for they sometimes, 
and perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires were 
old, and then when they had had enough of service and hard 
days and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of 
count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province more 
or less ; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that be- 
fore six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has 
others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable 
thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count 
this wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such 
knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might 
easily give thee even more than I promise thee.” 

“ In that case,” said Sancho Panza, ‘‘ if I should become a 
king by one of those miracles your worship speaks of, even 
Juana Gutierrez, my old woman,* would come to be queen and 
my qhildren infantes.” 

Well, who doubts it ? ” said Don Quixote. 

I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza, because for my part I 
am persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms 
upon earth, not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gu- 
tierrez. Let me tell you, senor, she is not worth two maravedis 
for a queen ; countess will fit her better, and that only with 
God’s help.” 

Leave it to God, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, for he 
will give her what suits her best ; but do not undervalue thy- 
self so much as to come to be content with anything less than 
being governor of a province.” 

“ 1 will not, senor,” answered Sancho, especially as I have 
a man of such quality for a master in your worship, who will 
be able to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I 
can bear.” 

* Amadis, for instance, made his squire Gandalin governor of the In- 
gula Firme. 

* mi oislo^ a sort of pet-name for a wife in old Spanish among the 
lower orders : 

” Acuerda de su oislo 
Mirando en pobre casa.” 


46 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE 

HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF 

THE AVINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE 

FITLY RECORDED. 

At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty wind- 
mills that there are on that plain/ and as soon as Don Quixote 
saw them he said to his squire, “ Fortune is arranging matters 
for us better than Ave could have shaped our desires ourselves, 
for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more 
monstrous giants present themselves, all of Av^hom I mean to 
engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils AA^e shall be- 
gin to make our fortunes ; for this is righteous warfare, and it 
is God’s good service to SAA^eep so evil a breed from off the face 
of the earth.” 

“ What giants ? ” said Sancho Panza. 

“ Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “ AAuth the 
long arms, and some have them nearly tAvo leagues long.” 

“ Look, your worship,” said Sancho ; Avhat aa^c see there 
are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms 
are the sails that turned by the Avind make the millstone go.” 

‘‘ It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “ that thou art not 
used to this business of adventures ; those are giants ; and if 
thou art afraid, aAvay with thee out of this and betake thyself 
to prayer AA^hile I engage them in fierce and unequal combat.” 

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless 
of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, Avarning him 
that most certainly they were Avindmills and not giants he Avas 
going to attack. He, however, Avas so positive they Avere 
giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, 
near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, 
“ Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for it is a single knight 
that attacks you.” 

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails 

' These famous windmills had not been very long set up, and owed their 
existence to the failure of water-power in the Zancara, an affluent of the 
Guadiana, about thirty years before Don Quixote was written. They are 
scattered over the plain between Alcazar de S. Juan and Villaharta. ( V. 
map.) 



IT SHIVERED THE LANCE TO PIECES, SWEEPING WITH IT HORSE AND RIDER 






CHAPTER VIII, 


47 


began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, Though 
ye flourisJi more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to 
reckon with me.’’ 

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to 
his lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a 
peril, wuth lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged 
at Kocinante’s fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that 
stood in front of him ; but as he drove his lance-point into the 
sail the wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered 
the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went 
rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened 
to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came 
up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Koci- 
nante fallen with him. 

God bless me ! ” said Sancho, did I not tell your wor- 
ship to mind what you were about, for they were only wind- 
mills ? and no one could have made any mistake about it but 
one who had something of the same kind in his head.” 

Hush, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, the fortunes 
of war more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations ; 
and moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage 
Friston who carried off my study and books, has turned these 
giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquish- 
ing them, such is the enmity he bears me ; but in the end his 
wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword.” 

God order it as he may,” said Sancho Panza, and helping 
him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder 
was half out ; and then, discussing the late adventure, they 
followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don 
Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance 
and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare.^ For all that, he 
was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to 
his squire, he added, I remember having read how a Spanish 
knight, Diegb Perez de Vargas by name, having broken his 
sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or branch, 
and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many 
Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca,^ and he and his 
descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. 

’ Being a stage on the great high road from Madrid to Seville. 

* From machucar or machacar^ *' to pound.” The feat referred to by 
Don Quixote was performed at the siege of Jerez under Alfonso X. in 
1264, and is the subject of a spirited ballad which Lockhart has treated 
with even more than his usual freedom. 


48 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I mention this because from the first oak ^ I see I mean to 
rend such another branch, large and stout like that, with 
which I am determined and resolved to do such deeds that 
thou mayest deem thyself very fortunate in being found 
worthy to come and see them, and be an eye-witness of things 
that will with difficulty be believed.^’ 

Be that as God will,’’ said Sancho, “ I believe it all as your 
worship says it ; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem 
all on one side, maybe from the shaking of the fall.” 

That is the truth,” said Don Quixote, “ and if I make no 
complaint of the pain it is because knights-errant are not per- 
mitted to complain of any wound, even though their bowels be 
coming out through it.” 

If so,” said Sancho, I have nothing to say ; but God 
knows I would rather your worship complained when anything 
ailed you. Dor my part, I confess I must complain however 
small the ache may be ; unless indeed this rule about not com- 
plaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also.” 

Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire’s simplic- 
ity, and he assured him he might complain whenever and how- 
ever he chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he had never read 
of anything to the contrary in the order of knighthood. 

Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his 
master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but 
that he might eat when he had a mind. AVith this permission 
Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, 
and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in 
them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliber- 
ately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota with a 
relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied ; 
and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after 
draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his 
master had made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather 
as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous 
they might be. Finally they passed the night among some 
trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to 
serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head 
he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don 
Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to 

* In the ballrd it is an olive tree, but the olive does not flourish in La 
Mancha, so Don Quixote substitutes oak, encina or rohle^ the former, the 
evergreen, being rather the more common in Spain. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


49 


conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in 
the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported 
by the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza 
spend it, for having his stomach full of something stronger 
than chiccory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his 
master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun beating 
on his face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the 
approach of day would have had power to waken him. On 
getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full 
than the night before, which grieved his heart because they 
did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency read- 
ily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has 
been already said, he confined himself to savory recollections 
for nourishment. 

They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to 
Puerto Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in 
sight of it. Here, brother Sancho Panza,” said Don Quixote 
when he saw it, we may plunge our hands up to the elbows 
in what they call adventures ; but observe, even shouldst thou 
see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put 
•a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless, indeed, thou per- 
ceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk ; for in 
that case thou mayest very properly aid me ; but if they be 
knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the 
laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a 
knight.” 

Most certainly, senor,” replied Sancho, ^^your worship 
shall be fully obeyed in this matter ; all the more as of myself 
I am peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels : it 
is true that as regards the defence of my own person I shall not 
give much heed to those laws, for laws human and divine allow 
each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever.” 

That I grant,” said Don Quixote, but in this matter of 
aiding me against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy 
natural impetuosity.” 

I will do so, I promise you,” answered Sancho, and I will 
keep this precept as carefully as Sunday.” 

While they were thus talking there appeared on the road 
two friars of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two drome- 
daries, for not less tall were the two mules they rode on. 
They wore travelling spectacles and carried sunshades ; and 
behind them came a coach attended by four or five persons on 

VoL. I. — 4 


50 


DON QUIXOTE. 


horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was. 
as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, 
where her husband was about to take passage for the Indies 
with an appointment of high honor. The friars, though going 
the same road, were not in her company ; but the moment Don 
Quixote perceived them he said to his squire, Either I am mis- 
taken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure that 
has ever been seen, for those black bodies we see there must 
be, and doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off some 
stolen princess in that coach, and with all my might I must 
undo this wrong.’’ 

This will be -worse than the windmills,” said Sancho. 
Look, senor ; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach 
plainly belongs to some travellers : mind, I tell you to mind 
well what you are about and don’t let the devil mislead you.” 

I have told thee already, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, 
that on the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What 
I say is the truth, as thou shalt see presently.” 

So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of 
the road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he 
thought they had come near enough to hear what he said, he 
cried aloud, Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly 
the high-born princesses whom you are carrying off by force in 
this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the just 
punishment of your evil deeds.” 

The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance 
of Don Quixote as well as at his w^ords, to which they replied, 
Senor Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two 
brothers of St. Benedict following our road, nor do we know 
whether or not there are any captive princesses coming in this 
coach.” 

^^No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,” 
said Don Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred 
Bocinante and with levelled lance charged the fir^ friar with 
such fury and determination that, if the friar had not flung 
himself off the mule, he would have brought him to the ground 
against his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright. 
The second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove 
his heels into his castle of a mule and made off across the 
country faster than the wind. 

Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, = dis- 
mounting briskly from his ass, rushed towards him' and began 


CHAPTER VIIT 


51 


to strip off his gown. At that instant the friars’ muleteers came 
up and asked what he was stripping him for. Sancho answered 
them that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the battle which 
his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no 
idea of a joke and did not understand all this about battles and 
spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off talking 
to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him 
down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belabored him 
with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on 
the ground ; and without any more delay helped the friar to 
mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found 
himself in the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was 
standing at a distance looking on, watching the result of the 
onslaught ; then, not caring to wait for the end of the affair 
just begun, they pursued their journey making more crosses 
than if they had the devil after them. 

Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in 
the coach : “ Your beauty, lady mine,” said he, may now dis- 
pose of your person as may be most in accordance with your 
pleasure, for the pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the 
ground through this strong arm of mine ; and lest you should 
be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know that I am 
called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and adven- 
turer, and captive to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso ; and in return for the service you have received of 
me I ask no more than that you should return to El Toboso, 
and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell her 
what I have done to set you free.” 

One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, 
was listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving 
that he would not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it 
must return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing 
his lance addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan ^ 
after this fashion, Begone, caballero, and ill go with thee ; by 
the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee 
as art here a Biscayan.” 

Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him 
very quietly, If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should 

’ In the humorous tract The Book of all Things^ and many more^ Que- 
vedo mentions as the chief characteristic of the Biscayan dialect that it 
changes the first person of the verb into the second. This may be ob- 
served in the specimen given here : another example of Biscayan will be 
found in Cervantes’ interlude of the Viscaino Fingido. 


52 


DON QUIXOTE. 


have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable crea- 
ture/^ To which the Biscayan returned, I no gentleman ! ^ — 
I swear to God thou liest as I am Christian : if thou droppest 
lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art car- 
rying water to the cat : ^ Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, 
hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou 
liest.” 

u i u You will see presently,” said Agrajes,^ ” ® replied Don 
Quixote ; and throwing his lance on the ground he drew his 
sword, braced his buckler on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, 
bent upon taking his life. 

The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished 
to dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry 
ones let out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but 
to draw his sword ; it was lucky for him, however, that he was 
near the coach, from which he was able to snatch a cushion 
that served him for a shield ; and then they went at one 
another as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others 
strove to make peace between them, but could not, for the 
Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not 
let him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and every 
one that strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed 
and terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw 
aside a little, and set herself to watch this severe struggle, in 
the course of which the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty 
stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given 
to one without armor, would have cleft him to the waist. Don 
Quixote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, 
saying, 0 lady of my soul, Dulcinea, fiower of beauty, come 
to the aid of this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations 
to your beauty, finds himself in this extreme peril.” To say 
this, to lift his sword, to shelter himself well behind his buckler, 

* Caballero means " gentleman ” as well as knight, and the peppery Bis- 
cayan assumes that Don Quixote has used the word in the former sense. 

* Quien ha de llevar el goto al agua f (Prov. 102.) " Who will carry 

the cat to the water? ” is a proverbial way of indicating an apparently in- 
superable difficulty. Between rage and ignorance the Biscayan, it will be 
seen, inverts the phrase. 

^ Agrajes was the cousin and companion of Amadis of Gaul. The phrase 
quoted above (Prov. 4) became a popular one, and is introduced as such 
among others of the same sort by Quevedo in the vision of the Visita de 
los Chistes. It is hard to say why it should have been fixed on Agrajes, 
who does not seem to use it as often as others, Amadis himself for 
instance. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


53 


and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an instant, deter- 
mined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Bis- 
cayan, seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his 
courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to fallow his ex- 
ample, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of his 
cushion, being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with 
his mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of 
game, could not stir a step. 

On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary 
Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting 
him in half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him 
sword in hand, and under the protection of his cushion ; and 
all present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the result of 
blows such as threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and 
the rest of her following were making a thousand vows and 
offerings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God might 
deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which 
they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and 
crisis the author of the history leaves this battle impending,^ 
giving as excuse that he could find nothing more written about 
these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already 
set forth. It is true the second author of this work was un- 
willing to believe that a history so curious could have been 
allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the wits 
of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to pre- 
serve in their archives or registries some documents referring 
to this famous knight ; and this being his persuasion, he did 
not despair of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, 
which. Heaven favoring him, he did find in a way that shall be 
related in the Second Part.^ 

* The abrupt suspension of the narrative and the reason assigned are in 
imitation of devices of the chivalry-romance writers. Montalvo, for in- 
stance, breaks off in the ninety-eighth chapter of Esplandian^ and in the 
next gives an account of the discovery of the sequel, very much as Cer- 
vantes has done here and in the next chapter. 

^ Cervantes divided his first volume of Bon Quixote into four parts, 
possibly in imitation of the four books of the Amadis of Montalvo ; but 
the chapters were numbered without regard to this division, which he also 
ignored in 1615 , when he called his new volume ' Second” instead of 
Fifth ” Part. 


54 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH ^IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC 
BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE 
VALIANT MANCHEGAN. 

In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Bis- 
cayan and the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords up- 
lifted, ready to deliver two such furious slashing blows that 
if they had fallen full and fair they would at least have split 
and cleft them asunder from top to toe and laid them open 
like a pomegranate ; and at this so critical point the delightful 
history came to a stop and stood cut short without any intima- 
tion from the author where what was missing was to be found. 

This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived 
from having read such a small portion turned to vexation at 
the thought of the poor chance that presented itself of find- 
ing the large part that, so it seemed to me, was missing of such 
an interesting tale. It appeared to me to be a thing impossible 
and contrary to all precedent that so good a knight should have 
been without some sage to undertake the task of writing his 
marvellous achievements ; a thing that was never wanting to 
any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adven- 
tures ; for every one of them had one or two sages as if made 
on purpose, who not only recorded their deeds but described 
their most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret they 
might be ; and such a good knight could not have been so un- 
fortunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had 
in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that 
such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated- and I 
laid the blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all 
things, that had either concealed or consumed it. 

On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his 
books there had been found such modern ones as The En- 
lightenment of Jealousy” and- “ The Nymphs and Shepherds 
of Henares,” his story must likewise be modern, and that though 
it might not be written, it might exist in the memory of the 
people of his village and of those in the neighborhood. This re- 
flection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly 
the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan 


CHAPTER IX. 


55 


chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these so evil 
days devoted himself to the labor and exercise of the arms of 
knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succoring widows, and pro- 
tecting damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in 
hand, V on their palfreys, with all their virginity about them, 
from mountain to mountain and valley to valley — for, if it 
were not for some rufiian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or 
monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore 
damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all which time 
they had never slept a day under a roof, went to their graves 
as much maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then, 
that in these and other respects our noble Don Quixote is 
worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor should it be with- 
held even from me for the labor and pains spent in searching 
for the conclusion of this delightful history ; though I know 
well that if Heaven, chance, and good fortune had not helped 
me, the world would have remained deprived of an entertain- 
ment and pleasure that for a couple of hours or so may well 
occupy him who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it 
occurred in this way. 

One day, as I was in the Alcana ^ of Toledo, a boy came up to 
sell some pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I 
am fond of reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets, 
led by this natural bent of mine, I took up one of the pamph- 
lets the boy had for sale, and saw that it was in characters 
which I recognized as Arabic, and, as I was unable to read 
them, though I could recognize them, I looked about to see if 
there were any Spanish-speaking Moriscp at hand to read them 
for me ; nor was there any great difficulty in finding such an 
interpreter, for even had I sought one for an older and better 
language ^ I should have found him. In short, chance provided 
me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and put the 
book into his hands, opened it in the middle, and after reading 
a little in it began to laugh. I asked him what he was laugh- 
ing at, and he replied that it was at something the book had 
written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to 
me ; and he, still laughing, said : In the margin, as I told 

^ Instead of azotes (whips) Clemencin suggests azores (hawks) , and 
refers to chapter xxx. Part II., where a hawk in hand is especially men- 
tioned as the usual accompaniment of a noble lady on horseback. 

* Alcand^ a market-place in Toledo in the neighborhood of the cathedral 

^i.e. Hebrew. 


66 


DON QUIXOTE, 


you, this is written : ^ This Dulcinea del Toboso so often men^ 
tioned in this history had, they say, the best hand of any woman 
in all La Mancha for salting pigs 

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck 
with surprise and amazement, for it occurred to me at 'once 
that these pamphlets contained the history of Don Quixote. 
With this idea I pressed him to read the beginning, and doing 
so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he told me it 
meant, History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by 
Cid Hamet Benengeli,^ an Arab historian^ It required great 
caution to hide the joy I felt when the title of the book 
reached my ears, and snatching it from the silk mercer, I 
bought all the papers and pamphlets from the boy for half a 
real ; and if he had had his wits about him and had known 
how eager I was for them, he might have safely calculated on 
making more than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at 
once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and 
begged him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don 
Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding 
anything to them, offering him whatever payment he pleased. 
He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels 
of wheat, and promised to translate them faithfully and with 
all despatch ; but to make the matter more easy, and not to 
let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my 
house, where in little more than a month and a half he trans- 
lated the whole just as it is set down here. 

In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and 
the Biscayan was drawn to the very life, they planted in the 
same attitude as the history describes, their swords raised, 
and the one protected by his buckler, the other by his cushion, 
and the Biscayan’s mule so true to nature that it could be seen 
to be a hired one a bowshot off. The Biscayan had an in- 
scription under his feet which said, Don Sancho de Azpeitia,^* 
which no doubt must have been his name ; and at the feet of 
Eocinante was another that said, Do7i QuixoteT Eocinante 
was marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, 
with so much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that 

* J. A. Conde suggested that Ben Engeli — " son of the stag” — is the 
Arabic equivalent of the name " Cervantes,” tlie root of which he as- 
sumed to be ciervo. Cervantes may^ of course, have intended what Conde 
attributes to him, hut the name in reality has nothing to do with ciervo^ 
and comes from Servando. ( V. Introduction, p. xviii.) 


CHAPTER IX. 


57 


he showed plainly with what judgment and propriety the name 
of Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was 
Sancho Panza holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet was 
another label that said, Sancho Zancas,’’ and according to 
the picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body, and 
long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza 
and Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the 
history several times calls him.^ Some other trifling particu- 
lars might be mentioned, but they are all of slight importance 
and have nothing to do with the true relation of the history ; 
and no history can be bad so long as it is true. 

If against thoj present one any objection be raised on the 
score of its truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, 
as lying is a very common propensity with those of that na- 
tion ; though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceiv- 
able that there were omissions rather than additions made in 
the course of it. And this is my own opinion ; for, where he 
could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so 
worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over 
in silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it 
is the business and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, 
and wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor fear, 
hatred nor love, should make them swerve from the path of 
truth, whose mother is history,^ rival of time, storehouse of 
deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the 
present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be 
found all that can be desired in the pleasantest, and if it be 
wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its 
hound of an author and not the fault of the subject. To be 
brief, its Second Part, according to the translation, began in 
this way : 

With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it 
seemed as though the two valiant and wrathful combatants 
stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resolu- 
tion and determination did they bear themselves. The fiery 
Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which was delivered 

* Panza — '* paunch : ” Zancas = " shanks ; ” but in spite of what Cer- 
vantes says, we hear no more of Sancho’s long shanks, for which the 
reader will be grateful. It would have been difficult to realize a long- 
legged Sancho. 

2 A curious instance of the carelessness with which Cervantes wrote and 
corrected, if, indeed, he corrected at all : of course he meant the opposite 
of what he said — that truth was the mother of history. 


58 


DON QUIXOTE. 


with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its 
course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to 
the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight ; 
but that good fortune which reserved him for greater things, 
turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that, although it 
smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm 
than to strip all that side of its armor, carrying away a great 
part of his helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful 
ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry plight. 

Good God ! Who is there that could properly describe the 
rage that tilled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw him- 
self dealt with in this fashion ? All that can be said is, it 
was such that he again raised himself in his stirrups, and, 
grasping his sword more firmly with both hands, he came 
down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full over 
the cushion and over the head, that — even so good a shield 
proving useless — as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began 
to bleed from nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall 
backwards from his mule, as no doubt he would have done 
had he not flung his arms about its neck ; at the same time, 
however, he slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then un- 
clasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at the terrible 
blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges flung 
its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very 
calmly, and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and 
with great briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of 
his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his 
head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable 
to answer a word, and it would have gone hard with him, so 
blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies in the coach, who 
had hitherto been watching the combat in great terror, 
hastened to where he stood and implored him with earnest 
entreaties to grant them the great grace and favor of sparing 
their squire’s life ; to which Don Quixote replied with much 
gravity and dignity, In truth, fair ladies, I am well content 
to do what ye ask of me ; but it must be on one condition and 
understanding, which is that this knight promise me to go to 
the village of El Toboso, and on my part present himself be- 
fore the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as 
shall be most pleasing to her.” 

The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing 
Don Quixote’s demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, 


CHAPTER X. 


59 


promised that their squire should do all that had been com- 
manded on his part. 

Then, on the faith of that promise,” said Don Quixote, I 
shall do him no further harm, though he well deserves it of 
me.” 


CHAPTER X. 

OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON 
QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA. 

Xow by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for 
the handling of the friars’ muleteers, and stood watching the 
battle of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God in his 
heart that it might be his will to grant him the victory, and 
that he might thereby win some island to make him governor 
of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the struggle 
was now over, and that his master was returning to mount 
Eocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, be- 
fore he could mount, he went on his knees before him, and 
taking his hand, kissed it saying, May it please your wor- 
ship, Senor Don Quixote, to give me the government of that 
island which has been won in thig hard fight, for be it ever so 
big I feel myself in sufficient force to be able to govern it as 
much and as well as any one in the world who has ever gov- 
erned islands.” 

To which Don Quixote replied, Thou must take notice, 
brother Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not 
adventures of islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is 
got except a broken head or an ear the less : have patience, for 
adventures will present themselves from which I may make 
you, not only a governor, but something more.” 

Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand 
and the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, 
and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master, 
who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything 
further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a 
wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his ass’s 
best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself 
left behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. 
Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his wear^^ 


60 


DON QUIXOTE. 


squire came up, who on reaching him said, It seems to me, 
senor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some 
church, for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has 
been left, it will be no wonder if they give information of the 
affair to the Holy Brotherhood * and arrest us, and, faith, if 
they do, before we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat 
for it.” 

Peace,” said Don Quixote ; where hast thou ever seen or 
heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court 
of justice, however many homicides he may have committed ? ” 

I know nothing about omecils,” ^ answered Sancho, nor 
in my life have had anything to do with one ; I only know 
that the Holy Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the 
fields, and in that other matter I do not meddle.” 

Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,” said 
Don Quixote, “ for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the 
Chaldeans, much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But 
tell me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight 
than I in all the known world ; hast thou read in history of 
any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more spirit in 
maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in over- 
throwing ? ” 

‘‘ The truth is,” answered Sancho, that I have never read 
any history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will 
venture to bet is that a more daring master than your worship 
I have never served in all the days of my life, and God grant 
that this daring be not paid for where I have said ; what I beg 
of your worship is to dress your wound, for a great deal of 
blood fiows from that ear, and I have here some lint and a 
little white ointment in the alforjas.” 

All that might be well dispensed with,” said Don Quixote, 
if I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fiera- 
bras,^ for time and medicine are saved by one single drop.” 

What vial and what balsam is that ? ” said Sancho Panza. 

* The Santa Hermandad, a tribunal established in the thirteenth century, 
but revived in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, with summary juris- 
diction over offenders against life and property on the highways and out- 
side of the municipal boundaries. 

® Omecillo or homecillo was an old form of the word homecidioy but in 
popular parlance it meant the fine imposed in default of appearance to 
answer a charge of assault and battery. 

^Fierabras, i.e. Fter a. Jras = Arm-strong,” a giant in Nicolas de 
Fiamonte’s history of Charlemagne and the Peers. 


CHAPTER X. 


61 


It is a balsam,” answered Don Quixote, the receipt of 
which I have in my memory, with which one need have no fear 
of death, or dread dying of any wound ; and so when I make 
it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some 
battle thou seest they have cut me in half through the middle 
of the body — as is wont to happen frequently — but neatly 
and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that por- 
tion of the body which shall have fallen to the ground upon 
the other half w^hich remains in the saddle, taking care to fit 
it on evenly and exactly. Then thou shalt give me to drink 
but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and thou shalt 
see me become sounder than an apple.” 

If that be so,” said Panza, “ I renounce henceforth the 
government of the promised island, and desire nothing more 
in payment of my many and faithful services than that your 
worship give me the receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am 
persuaded it will be worth more than two reals an ounce any- 
where, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease 
and honor ; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make 
it.” 

With less than three reals six quarts ^ of it may be made,” 
said Don Quixote. 

Sinner that I am ! ” said Sanchp, then why does your 
worship put off making it and teaching it to me.” 

Peace, friend,” answered Don Quixote ; greater secrets I 
mean to teach thee and greater favors to bestow upon thee ; 
and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains 
me more than I could wish.” 

Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas ; 
but when Don Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he 
was like to lose his senses, and, clapping his hand upon his 
sword and raising his eyes to heaven, he said, I swear by the 
Creator of all things and the four ’Gospels in their fullest ex- 
tent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua did when he swore 
to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that was not 
to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other 
points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here 
grant as expressed), until I take complete vengeance upon him 
who has committed such an offence against me.” 

Hearing this, Sancho said to him, Your worship should 
bear in mind, Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done 
•In the original, ires azumhres. 


62 


DON QUIXOTE. 


what was commanded him in going to present himself before 
my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all that he 
was bound to do, and does not deserve further punishment 
unless he commits some new offence/’ 

Thou hast said well and hit the point/’ answered Don Qui- 
xote ; and so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking 
fresh vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it anew to 
lead the life I have said until such time as I take by force 
from some knight another helmet such as this and as good; 
and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in 
doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the 
very same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino’s 
helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear.” * 

“ Senor,” replied Sancho, let your worship send all such 
oaths to the devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and 
prejudicial to the conscience ; just tell me now, if for several 
days to come we fall in with no man armed with a helmet, 
vrhat are we to do ? Is the oath to be observed in spite of all 
the inconvenience and discomfort it will be to sleep in your 
clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand other 
mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool, the Mar- 
quis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive ? 
Let your worship observe that there are no men in armor trav- 
elling on any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, 
who not only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard 
tell of them all their lives.” 

“Thou art wrong there,” said Don Quixote,. for we shall 
not have been two hours among these cross-roads before we 
see more men in armor than came to Albraca to win the fair 
Angelica.” ^ 

“ Enough,” said Sancho ; “ so be it then, and God grant us 
success, and that the time for winning that island which, is 
costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me die.” 

“ I have already told thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ not 
to give thyself any uneasiness on that score ; for if an island 
should fail, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, 
which will fit thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the more 
that being on terra firma thou wilt all the better enjoy thy- 

* Mambrino, a Moorish king in the Orlando of Boiardo, whose en- 
chanted helmet was won by Rinaldo. It was Dardinel, however, not 
Sacripante, to whom it cost so dear. (V. Ariosto^ c. xviii., st. 151.) 

* Albraca, a stronghold of Galafron, King of Cathay and father of 
Angelica. The siege is one of the incidents in the Orlando of Boiardo. 


CHAPTER X, 


63 


self. But let us leave that to its own time ; see if thou hast any- 
thing for us to eat in those alforjas, because we must presently 
go in quest of some castle where we may lodge to-night and 
make the balsam 1 told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, 
this ear is giving me great pain.” 

I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps 
of bread,” said Sancho, <^but they are not victuals fit for a 
valiant knight like your worship.” 

How little thou knowest about it,” answered Don Quixote ; 

I would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of 
knights-errant to go without eating for a month, and even 
when they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to 
hand; and this would have been clear to thee hadst thou 
read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very 
many, among them all I have found no mention made of 
knights-errant eating, unless by accident or at some sump- 
tuous banquets prepared for them, and the rest of the time 
they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain they could 
not do without eating and performing all the other natural 
functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, 
it is plain too that, wandering as they did the most part of 
their lives through woods and wilds and without a cook, their 
most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou dost 
now offer me ; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress thee 
which pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or 
pervert knight-errantry.” ^ 

Pardon me, your worship,” said Sancho, for, as I can not 
read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor compre- 
hend the rules of the profession of chivalry : henceforward I 
will stock the alforjas wuth every kind of dry fruit for your 
worship, as you are a knight ; and for myself, as I am not one, 
I will furnish them with poultry and other things more sub- 
stantial.” 

I do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, that it is im* 
perative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the 
fruits thou speakest of ; only that their more usual diet must 
be those, and certain herbs they found in the fields which 
they knew and I know too.” 

A good thing it is,” answered Sancho, to know those 
herbs, for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put 
that knowledge into practice.” 

* Literally, take knight-errantry off its hinges. 


64 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair 
made their repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to 
find quarters for the night, they with all despatch made an 
end of their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and made haste 
to reach some habitation before night set in ; but daylight and 
the hope of succeeding in their object failed them close by the 
huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass the night 
there, and it was as much to Sancho’s discontent not to have 
reached a house, as it was to his master’s satisfaction to sleep 
under the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this hap- 
pened to him he performed an act of ownership that helped to 
prove his chivalry. 


CHAPTER XI. • 

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS. 

He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, 
having as best he could put up Eocinante and the ass, drew 
towards the fragrance that came from some pieces of salted 
goat simmering in a pot on the fire ; and though he would have 
liked at once to try if they were ready to be transferred from 
, the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as the goat- 
herds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on 
the ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of 
hearty good-will invited them both to share what they had. 
Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated 
themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don 
Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for 
him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho 
remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. 
Seeing him standing, his master said to him, That thou 
mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains in 
itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high 
road to be speedily honored and esteemed by the world, I de- 
sire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the com- 
pany of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me 
who am thy master and natural lord, and that thou eat from 
my plate and drink from whatever I drink from ; for the same 
may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all.” 

“ Great thanks,” said Sancho, “ but I may tell your worship 


CHAPTER XL 


65 


that provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or 
better, standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an 
emperor. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my 
corner without form or fuss has much more relish for me, even 
though it be bread and onions, than the turkeys of those other 
tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my 
mouth every minute, and can not sneeze or cough if I want, or 
do other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude. 
So, senor, as for these honors which your worship would put 
upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry (which I 
am, being your worship’s squire), exchange them for other 
things which may be of more use and advantage to me ; for 
these, though I fully acknowledge them as received, I renounce 
from this moment to the end of the world.” 

“ For all that,” said Don Quixote, thou must seat thyself, 
because him who humbleth himself God exalteth ; ” and seiz- 
ing him by the arm he forced him to sit down beside himself. 

The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires 
and knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and 
stare at their guests, who, with great elegance and appetite, 
were stowing away pieces as big as one’s fist. The course of 
meat finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap 
of parched acorns, and with them they put down a half cheese 
harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the 
horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full, 
now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel,^ that it soon 
drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When 
Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite, he took up a 
handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively de- 
livered himself somewhat in this fashion : ^ 

Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave 
the name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold 
so coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but 
because they that lived in it knew not the two words ^ mine ’ 
and ^ thine ’ ! In that blessed age all things were in common ; 
to win the daily food, no labor was required of any save to 

' " Water-wheel ” — noria — a machine used for irrigation in Spain, by 
which the water is raised in pots or buckets attached to the circumference 
of a large wheel. 

* The eulogy of the golden age is one of the loci classici of Don Quixote 
quoted in every Spanish anthology ; the reader, however, must not judge 
of it by translation, which can not give the stately roll and flow of the 
original Castilian. 

VOL. I. — 


66 


DON QUIXOTE. 


stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that 
stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The 
clear streams and running brooks yielded their savory ^ limpid 
waters in noble abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed 
their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the 
trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their 
fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unen- 
forced save of their own courtesy, shed the broad light bark 
that served at first to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, 
a protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all 
was peace, all friendship, all concord ; as yet the dull share of 
the crooked plough had not dared to rend and pierce the tender 
bowels of our first mother that without compulsion yielded 
from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could 
satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that then possessed 
her. Then was it that the innocent and fair young shepherd- 
esses roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing 
locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to 
cover what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were 
their ornaments like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian 
purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions. Out the wreathed 
leaves of the green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as 
bravely and becomingly decked as our Court dames with all the 
rare and far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has taught 
them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves 
simply and naturally ^ as the heart conceived them, nor sought 
to commend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. 
Fraud, deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth 
and sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and un- 
assailed by the efforts of favor and of interest, that now so 
much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had not 
yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there 
was no cause to judge, and no one to be judged. Maidens and 
modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, 
without fear of insult from lawdessness or libertine assault, and 

’ Water is almost worshipped in thirsty Spain, and many a complimen- 
tary epithet bestowed upon^it that sounds odd under moister skies : agua 
muy rica — " very rich wafer ” — is a common encomium from a Spaniard 
after a hearty pull at the alcarraza. 

^ Clemencin and Hartzenbusch, why I know not, object to se decor ahan^ 
the reading of the original editions, and the latter substitutes se declardban. 
I venture to think the original reading admits of the interpretation I have 
given. 


CHAPTER XL 


67 


if they were undone it was of their own will and pleasure. 
But now, in this hateful age of ours, not one is safe, not 
though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and sur- 
round her ; even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its 
way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its 
accursed importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them 
to ruin. In defence of these, as time advanced and wickedness 
increased, the order of knights-errant was instituted, to defend 
maidens, to protect widows, and to succor the orphans and the 
needy. To this order I belong, brother goatherds, to whom I 
return thanks for the hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer 
me and my squire ; for though by natural law all living are 
bound to show favor to knights-errant, yet, seeing that without 
knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted me, it 
is right that with all the good-will in my power I should thank 
you for yours.’’ 

All this long harangue (which might very well have been 
spared) our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him 
reminded him of the golden age ; and the whim seized him to 
address all this unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who 
listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word in 
reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and 
paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they had 
hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool. 

Don Quixote was longer in talking than in finishing his sup- 
per, at the end of which one of the goatherds said, That your 
worship, senor knight-errant, may say with more truth that we 
show you hospitality with ready good-will, we will give you 
amusement and pleasure by making one of our comrades sing : 
he will be here before long, and he is a very intelligent youth 
and deep in love, and what is more he can read and write and 
play on the rebeck ^ to perfection.” 

The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of 
the rebeck reached their ears ; and shortly after, the player 
came up, a very good-looking young man of about two-and- 
twenty. His comrades asked him if he had supped, and on 
his replying that he had, he who had already made the offer 
said to him, In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us 
the pleasure of singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest 
here, may see that even in the mountains and woods there are 
musicians : we have told him of thy accomplishments, and we 

^ In the Spanish, rahel^ a small three-stringed luta of Moorish origin. 


68 


DON QUIXOTE. 


want thee to show them and prove that we say true ; so, as 
thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy love 
that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so 
much liked in the town.’’ 

“ With all my heart,” said the young man, and without 
waiting for any more pressing he seated himself on the trunk 
of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began with 
right good grace to sing to these words. 


ANTONIO’S BALLAD.' 

Thou dost love me well, Olalla • 

Well I know it, even though 

Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never 
By their glances told me so. 

Bor I know my love thou knowest. 

Therefore thine to claim I dare ; 

Once it ceases to be secret. 

Love need never feel despair. 

True it is, Olalla, sometimes 
Thou hast all too plainly shown 

That thy heart is brass in hardness. 

And thy snowy bosom stone. 

* Antonio’s ballad is in imitation of a species of popular poetry that 
occupies nearly as large a space as the romantic and historical ballads in 
the old romanceros. These gay, naive., simple lays of peasant life and 
love are as thoroughly national and peculiar to Spain as the historical 
ballads themselves, and in every way present a striking contrast to the 
artificial pastoral sonnets and canciones of Italian importation. The im- 
itation of this kind of poetry was a favorite pastime with the poets of the 
Spanish Augustan age, and strange to say the poet who showed the light- 
est touch and brightest fancy in these compositions, and caught most hap- 
pily the simplicity and freshness of the originals, was Gongora, whose 
name is generally associated with poetry the exact opposite of this in 
every particular. Cervantes apparently valued himself more upon his 
sonnets and artificial verses ; a preference regretted, I imagine, by most 
of his readers. This ballad has been hardly treated by the translators. 
The language and measures used by Shelton and Jervas are about as well 
adapted to represent a Spanish popular lyric as a dray-horse to draw a pony- 
chaise. The measure of the original is the ordinary ballad measure, an 
eight-syllable trochaic, with the assonant rhyme in the second and fourth 
lines. The latter peculiarity I have made no attempt to imitate here, but 
examples of it will be found farther on. 


CHAPTER XL 


69 


Yet for all that, in thy coyness, 

And thy fickle fits between, 

Hope is there — at least the border 
Of her garment may be seen. 

Lures to faith are they, those glimpses, 
And to faith in thee I hold ; 

Kindness can not make it stronger, 
Coldness can not make it cold. 

If it be that love is gentle. 

In thy gentleness I see 

Something holding out assurance 
To the hope of winning thee. 

If it be that in devotion 

Lies a power hearts to move. 

That which every day I show thee, 
Helpful to my suit should prove. 

Many a time thou must have noticed — 
If to notice thou dost care — 

How I go about on Monday 

Dressed in all my Sunday wear. 

Love’s eyes love to look on brightness 5 
Love loves what is gayly drest ; 

Sunday, Monday, all I care is 
Thou shouldst see me in my best. 

No account I make of dances. 

Or of strains that pleased thee so, 

Keeping thee awake from midnight 
Till the cocks began to crow ; 

Or of how I roundly swore it 

That there ’s none so fair as thou ; 

True it is, but as I said it. 

By the girls I ’m hated now. 

For Teresa of the hillside 

At my praise of thee was sora*. 


TO 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Said, You think you love an angel ; 

It ’s a monkey you adore ; 

Caught by all her glittering trinkets, 

And her borrowed braids of hair. 

And a host of made-up beauties 
That would Love himself ensnare.^ 

’T was a lie, and so I told her. 

And her cousin at the word 

Gave me his defiance for it ; 

And what followed thou hast heard 

Mine is no high-flown affection. 

Mine no passion jpar amours — 

As they call it — what I offer 
Is an honest love, and pure. 

Cunning cords ^ the holy Church has. 

Cords of softest silk they be ; 

Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear ; 

Mine wilt follow, thou wilt see. 

Else — and once for all I swear it 
By the saint of most renown — 

If I ever quit the mountains, 
will be in a friar’s gown. 

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though 
Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind 
that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to 
songs ; so said he to his master, Your worship will do well 
to settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the 
labor these good men are at all day does not allow them to 
spend the night in singing.” 

I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote ; I per- 
ceive clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand com- 
pensation in sleep rather than in music.” 

It ’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho. 

I do not deny it,” replied Don Quixote ; but settle thy- 

’ Coyundas^ the cords or thongs by which the horns of the draught oxen 
axe bound to the yoke. 


CHAPTER XI L 


71 


self where thou wilt ; those of my calling are more becomingly 
employed in watching than in sleeping ; still it would be as 
well if thou wert to dress this ear for me again, for it is 
giving me more pain than it need.” 

Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds seeing 
the wound told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a 
remedy with which it would be soon healed ; and gathering 
some leaves of rosemary, of which there was a great quantity 
there, he chewed them and mixed them with a little salt, and 
applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a band- 
age, assuring him that no other treatment would be required, 
and so it proved. 


CHAPTER XII. 

OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DOX- 
QUIXOTE. 

Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their 
provisions from the village, came up and said, Do you know 
what is going on in the village, comrades ? ” 

“ How could we know it ? ” replied one of them. 

^^Well, then, you must know,” continued the young man, 
^^this morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysos- 
tom died, and it is rumored that he died of love for that devil 
of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that 
wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess.” 

You mean Marcela ? ” said one. 

“ Her I mean,” answered the goatherd ; and the best of it 
is, he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields 
like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree 
spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself 
said so), that was the place where he first saw her. And he 
has also left other directions which the clergy of the village 
say should not and must not be obeyed because they savor of 
paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, 
he who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that 
everything must be done without any omission according to the 
directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all 
in commotion ; however, report says that, after all, what Am- 
brosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and 


72 


DON QUIXOTE, 


to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony 
where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing ; at 
least I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not 
return to the village to-morrow.” 

‘‘ We will do the same,” answered the goatherds, and cast 
lots to see who must stay to mind the goats of all.” 

Thou sayest well, Pedro,” said one, though there will be 
no need of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all ; 
and don’t suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me ; it is 
that the splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not 
let me walk.” 

For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro. 

Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was 
and who the shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he 
knew was that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman belong- 
ing to a village in those mountains, who had been a student at 
Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he returned to 
his village with the reputation of being very learned and deeply 
read. Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the 
stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun 
and the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon 
to the exact time. 

Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those 
two luminaries,” said Don Quixote ; but Pedro, not troubling 
himself with trifles, went on with his story, saying, “ Also he 
foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or 
estility.” 

Sterility, you mean, friend,” said Don Quixote. 

Sterility or estility,” answered Pedro, it is all the same 
in the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and 
friends who believed him grew very rich because they did as he 
advised them, bidding them ^ sow barley this year, not wheat ; 
this year you may sow pulse ^ and not barley ; the next there 
will be a full oil crop, and the three following not a drop will 
be got.’ ” 

That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote. 

I do not know what it is called,” replied Pedro, but I 
know that he knew all this and more besides. But, to make 
an end, not many months had passed after he returned from 
Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed as a shepherd 

Pulse” — garhanzos,, or chick-peas, one of the invariable constitu- 
ents of the olla ox puchero^ and therefore an important crop in Spain. 


CHAPTER XII. 


73 


with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the long gown 
he wore as a scholar ; and at the same time his great friend, 
Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his studies, 
took to the shepherd’s dress with him. I forgot to say that 
Chrysostom who is dead was a great man for writing verses, 
so much so that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays ^ 
for Corpus Christi which the young men of our village acted, 
and all said they were excellent. When the villagers saw the 
two scholars so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd’s dress 
they were lost in wonder, and could not guess what had led 
them to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the 
father of our Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large 
amount of property in chattels as well as in land, no small 
number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of money, of all 
of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and indeed 
he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, 
and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a 
countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be 
known that he had changed his dress with no other object 
than to wander about these wastes after that shepherdess 
Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago, with whom the de- 
ceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell you 
now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is ; per- 
haps, and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard 
anything like it all the days of your life, though you should 
live more years than sarna.” ^ 

Say Sara,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goat- 
herd’s confusion of words. 

The sarna lives long enough,” answered Pedro ; ‘‘ and if, 
senor, you must go finding fault with words at every step, we 
shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth.” 

Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote ; but, as there is 
such a difference between sarna and Sara, I told you of it ; 
however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer 
than Sara: so continue your story, and I will not object any 
more to anything.” 

Plays ” — autos., religious allegorical dramas. 

* Mas Viejo que sarna — (Prov. 250) " older than itch” — is a very old 
popular phrase. Don Quixote, either not knowing it or else not recogniz- 
ing it in the form in Avhich Pedro puts it, supposes him to mean Sarah the 
wife of Abraham. Though Cervantes tries to observe dramatic propriety 
by making Pedro blunder, in the end he puts into his mouth language as 
fine and words as long as Don Quixote’s. 


74 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I say then, my dear sir,’^ said the goatherd, that in our 
village there was a farmer even richer than the father of 
Chrysostom, who was named Guillermo, and upon whom God 
bestowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at whose 
birth her mother died, the most respected woman there was in 
this neighborhood ; I fancy I can see her now with that coun- 
tenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the 
other ; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I 
trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God 
in the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at 
the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a 
child and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and 
prebendary in our village. The girl grew up with such beauty 
that it reminded us of her mother’s, which was very great, 
and yet it was thought that the daughter’s would exceed it ; 
and so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years 
nobody beheld her without blessing God that had made her so 
beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her beyond 
redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retire- 
ment, but for all that the fame of her great beauty spread so 
that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, 
solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage by those not 
only of our town but of towns many leagues round, and by 
the persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good 
Christian man, though he desired to give her in marriage at 
once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do so 
without her consent, not that he had any eye to the gain and 
profit which the custody of the girl’s property brought him 
while he put off her marriage ; and, faith, this was said in 
praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. 
For I would have you know. Sir Errant, that in these little 
villages everything is talked about and everything is carped 
at; and rest assured, as I am, that the priest must be over and 
above good who forces his parishioners to speak well of him, 
especially in villages.” 

That is the truth,” said Don Quixote ; but go on, for the 
story is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good 
grace.” 

May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,” said Pedro ; 
that is the one to have. To proceed : you must know that 
though the uncle put before his niece and described to her the 
qualities of each one in particular of the many who had asked 


CHAPTER XII, 


75 


her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice ac- 
cording to her own taste, she never gave any other answer 
than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being 
so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of 
matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses 
that she made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till 
she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate her- 
self to her own liking. For, said he — and he said quite right 
— parents are not to settle children in life against their will. 
But when one least looked for it, lo and behold ! one day the 
demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess ; 
and, in spite of her uncle and all those of the town that 
strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other 
shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. 
And so, since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to 
be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many rich 
youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of 
Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. 
One of these, as has been already said, was our deceased 
friend, of whom they say that he did not love but adore her. 
But you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such 
liberty and independence, and of so little or rather no retire- 
ment, that she has given any occasion, or even the semblance 
of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty ; on the 
contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she 
watches over her honor, that of all those that court and woo 
her not one has boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has 
given him any hope however small of obtaining his desire. 
For although she does not avoid or shun the society and con- 
versation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously and 
kindly, should any one of them come to declare his intention 
to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matri- 
mony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this 
kind of disposition she does more harm in this country than 
if the plague had got into it, for her affability and her beauty 
draw on the hearts of those that associate with her to love 
her and to court her, but her scorn and her frankness ^ bring 
them to the brink of despair ; and so they know not what to 
say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and 
other names of the same sort which well describe the nature 

1 " Frankness ” — desengano — more properly " undeceiving,” but ther« 
is no equivalent word in English. 


76 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of her character; and if you should remain here any time, 
senor, you would hear these hills and valleys resounding with 
the laments of the rejected ones who pursue her. Not far 
from this there is a spot where there are a couple of dozen of 
tall beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved and 
written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and above 
some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover 
would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that 
of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there 
another is lamenting ; there love songs are heard, here despair- 
ing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night seated 
at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without having 
closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the morning 
bemused and bereft of sense; and another without relief or 
respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full 
heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the 
compassionate heavens, and over one and the other, over these 
and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. 
And all of us that know her are waiting to see what her pride 
will come to, and who is to be the happy man that will succeed 
in taming a nature so formidable and gaining possession of a 
beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such well- 
established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the 
cause of Chrysostom’s death, as our lad told us, is the same.. 
And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be present to-morrow at 
his burial, which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom 
had many friends, and it is not half a league from this place 
to where he directed he should be buried.” 

I will make a point of it,” said Don Quixote, and I thank 
you for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interest- 
ing a tale.” 

Oh,” said the goatherd, I do not know even the half of 
what has happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to- 
morrow we may fall in with some shepherd on the road who 
can tell us ; and now it will be well for you to go and sleep 
under cover, for the night air may hurt your wound, though 
with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of an 
untoward result.” 

Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd’s loquacity at 
the devil, ^ on his part begged his master to go into Pedro’s hut 

* Perhaps the reader will think Sancho had some justification ; an epi- 
demic of verbosity, indeed, rages round the corpse of the unhappy 


CHAPTER XI I L 


77 


to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of the night in 
thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of 
Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself between Pocinante 
and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded, 
but like a man who had been soundly kicked. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS 
MARCELA, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS. 

But hardly had day begun to show itself through the bal- 
conies of the east, when five of the six goatherds come to rouse 
Don Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a mind to go 
and see the famous burial of Chrysostom they would bear him 
company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing better, rose and 
ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he did 
with all despatch, and with the same they all set out forth- 
with. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the 
meeting of two paths they saw coming towards them some six 
shepherds dressed in black sheepskins and with their heads 
crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter oleander. Each 
of them carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along with 
them there came two men of quality on horseback in hand- 
some travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompany- 
ing them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, 
and inquiring one of the other which way each party was going, 
they learned that all were bound for the scene of the burial, 
so they went on all together. 

One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to 
him, “ It seems to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as 
well spent the delay we shall incur in seeing this remarkable 
funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be judging by the strange 
things these shepherds have told us, of both the dead shepherd 
and homicide shepherdess.’^ 

Chrysostom ; but it must he remembered verbosity was then rampant in 
literature and especially in Spanish literature, as all who know G'lizman 
de Alfarache^ The Picara Justina^ Marcos de Ohregon^ and books of the 
same sort, will own ; and if Cervantes did not wholly escape it, his fits of 
it were only occasional. 


78 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ So I think too/’ replied Vivaldo, and I would delay not 
to say a day, but four, for the sake of seeing it.” 

Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of 
Marcela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the 
same morning they had met these shepherds, and seeing them 
dressed in this mournful fashion they had asked them the 
reason of their appearing in such a guise ; which one of them 
gave, describing the strange behavior and beauty of a shep- 
herdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her, 
together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial 
they were going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had 
related to Don Quixote. 

This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by 
him who was called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the 
reason that led him to go armed in that fashion in a country 
so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied, “ The pursuit of 
my calling does not allow or permit me to go in any other 
fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented for 
soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms, were invented and 
made for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of 
whom I, though unworthy, am the least of all.” 

The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and 
the better to settle the point and discover what kind of mad- 
ness his was, Yivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights- 
errant meant. 

“ Have not your worships,” replied Don Quixote, read the 
annals and histories of England, in which are recorded the fa- 
mous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian 
invariably call King Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient 
tradition, and commonly received all over that kingdom of 
Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was changed by 
magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to re- 
turn to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre ; for which 
reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any 
Englishman ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of 
this good king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights of 
the Bound Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lance- 
lot of the Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely 
as is there related, the go-between and confidante therein being 
the highly honorable dame Quintanona, whence came that 
ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain — 


CHAPTER XIIL 


79 


O never surely was there knight 
So served by hand of dame, 

As served was he Sir Lancelot hight 
When he from Britain came — ^ 

with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in 
love and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order 
of chivalry went on extending and spreading itself over many 
and various parts of the world; and in it, famous and re- 
nowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of Gaul with 
all his sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the 
valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently 
praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have 
seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don 
Belianis of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, 
and what I have spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of 
which, as I have already said, I, though a sinner, have made 
profession, and what the aforesaid knights professed that same 
do I profess, and so I go through these solitudes and wilds 
seeking adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my arm and 
person to the most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of 
the weak and needy.’’ 

By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy 
themselves of Don Quixote’s being out of his senses and of the 
form of madness that overmastered him, at which they felt the 
same astonishment that all felt on first becoming acquainted 
with it ; and Vivaldo, who was a person of great shrewdness 
and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the short 
journey which they said was required to reach the mountain, 
the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of 
going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, It seems to 
me, Senor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of 
one of the most austere professions in the world, and I imagine 
even that of the Carthusian monks is not so austere.” 

As austere it may perhaps be,” replied our Don Quixote, 
but so necessary for the world I am very much inclined to 

* The ballad {Gancionero de Romances^ Antwerp, s.a., and Duran, No. 
352) is that parodied by Don Quixote in Chap. ii. " Britain ” is, of course, 
Brittany ; Lancelot’s father. King Ban, was a Breton. The idea of the 
"go-between ” is derived from an Italian source, but the name Quintahona 
is Spanish ; it means simply an old woman, one who has a quintal, or 
hundred-weight of years on her back. The transformation of Arthur 
into a raven is also a Southern addition to the Arthurian legend. Cer- 
vantes ridicules the story in Per silts and Sigismunda. 


80 


DON QUIXOTE. 


doubt. For, if the truth is to be told, the soldier who exe* 
cutes what his captain orders does no less than the captain 
himself who gives the order. My meaning is, that church- 
men in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of 
the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what 
they pray for, defending it with the might of our arms and 
the edge of our swords, not under shelter but in the open 
air, a target for the intolerable rays of the sun in summer 
and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God’s min- 
isters on earth and the arms in which his justice is done 
therein. And as the business of war and all that relates 
and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceeding 
great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those who 
make it their profession have undoubtedly more labor than 
those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in pray- 
ing to God to help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does 
it enter into my thoughts, that the knight-errant’s calling is 
as good as that of the monk in his cell ; I would merely 
infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt 
a more laborious and a more belabored one, a hungrier and 
thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier ; for there is no 
reason to doubt that the knights-errant of yore endured much 
hardship in the course of their lives. And if some of them 
by the might of their arms did rise to be emperors, in faith 
it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat ; and if 
those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and 
sages to help them they would have been completely balked 
in their ambition and disappointed in their hopes.” . 

That is my own opinion,” replied the traveller ; ‘‘ but one 
thing among many others seems to me very wrong in knights- 
errant, and that is that when they find themselves about to 
engage in same mighty and perilous adventure in which there 
is manifest danger of losing their lives, they never at the 
moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves 
to God, as is the duty of every good Christian in like peril ; 
instead of which they commend themselves to their ladies 
with as much heartiness and devotion as if these were their 
gods, a thing which seems to me to savor somewhat of hea- 
thenism.” 

Sir,” answered Don Quixote, that can not be on any 
account omitted, and the knight-errant would be disgraced 
who acted otherwise : for it is usual and customary in Imight* 


CHAPTER XIII. 


81 


errantry that the knight-errant who on engaging in any great 
feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn his eyes 
towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them en- 
treating her to favor and protect him in the hazardous ven- 
ture he is about to undertake, and even though no one hear 
him, he is bound to say certain words between his teeth, 
commending himself to her with all his heart, and of this 
we have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor is it 
to be supposed from this that they are to omit commending 
themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity for 
doing so while they are engaged in their task.’’ 

For all that,” answered the traveller, I feel some doubt 
still, because often I have read how words will arise between 
two knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes 
about that their anger kindles and they wheel their horses 
round and take a good stretch of field, and then without any 
more ado at the top of their speed thoy come to the charge, 
and in mid-career they commend themselves to their ladies ; 
and what commonly comes of the encounter is that one falls 
over the haunches of his horse pierced through and through by 
his antagonist’s lance, and as for the other, it is only by hold- 
ing on to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the 
ground ; but I know not how the dead man had time to com- 
mend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this ; 
it would have been better if those words which he spent in 
commending himself to his lady in the midst of his career had 
been devoted to his duty and obligation as a Christian. More- 
over, it is my belief that all knights-errant have not ladies to 
commend themselves to, for they are not all in love.” 

That is impossible,” said Don Quixote, I say it is impos- 
sible that there could be a knight-errant without a lady, be- 
cause to such it is as natural and proper to be in love as to the 
heavens to have stars ; most certainly no history has been 
seen in which there is to be found a knight-errant without an 
amour, and for the simple reason that without one he would 
be held no legitimate knight, but a bastard, and one who 
had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knight- 
hood, not by the door, but over the wall like a thief and a 
robber.” 

^^Nevertheless,” said the traveller, if I remember rightly, 
I think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the val- 
iant Amadis of Gaul, never, had any special lady to whom he 

VoL. L — 6 


82 


DON QUIXOTE, 


might commend himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, 
and was a very stout and famous knight.” 

To which our Don Quixote made answer, Sir, one solitary 
swallow does not make summer ; * moreover, I know that that 
knight was in secret very deeply in love; besides which, that 
way of falling in love with all that took his fancy was a nat- 
ural propensity which he could not control. But, in short, it 
is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mis- 
tress of his will, to whom he commended himself frequently 
and very secretly, for he prided himself on being a reticent 
knight.” 

Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be 
in love,” said the traveller, it may be fairly supposed that 
your worship is so, as you are of the order ; and if you do not 
pride yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat 
you as earnestly as I can, in the name of all this company and 
in my own, to inform us of the name, country, rank, and beauty 
of your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the 
world knows that she is loved and served by such a knight as 
your worship seems to be.” 

At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh, and said, I Can 
not say positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not 
that the world should know I serve her ; I can only say in 
answer to what has been so courteously asked of me, that her 
name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La 
Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a princess, since she 
is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since all 
the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the 
poets apply to their ladies are verified in her ; for her hairs are 
gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her 
eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her 
neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness 
snow, and what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and 
imagine, as rational reflection can only extol, not compare.” 

We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,” 
said Vivaldo. 

To which Don Quixote replied, She is not of the ancient 
Roman Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or 
Orsini, nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of . Catalonia, nor 
yet of the Rebellas or Villanovas of Valencia ; Palafoxes, 
Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or 

*Prov. 106 . 


CHAPTER XIII. 


83 


Gurreas of Aragon ; Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, or Guzmans 
of Castile ; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of Portugal ; but 
she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that, 
though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the 
most illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this 
let none dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino 
placed at the foot of the trophy of Orlando’s arms saying. 

These let none move 
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.” * 

Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,” ^ said the 
traveller, “ I will not venture to compare it with that of El 
Toboso of La Mancha, though, to tell the truth, no such surname 
has until now ever reached my ears.” 

“ What ! ” said Don Quixote, has that never reached 
them ? ” 

The rest of the party went along listening with great atten- 
tion to the conversation of the pair, and even the very goat- 
herds and shepherds perceived how exceedingly out of his wits 
our Don Quixote was. Sancho Panza alone thought that what 
his master said was the truth, knowing who he was and having 
known him from his birth ; and all that he felt any difficulty 
in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, be- 
cause neither any such name nor any such princess had ever 
come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso.^ 
They were going along conversing in this way, when they saw 
descending a gap between two high mountains ^ some twenty 
shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned 

* " Nessun la mova 

Che star non possa con Orlando prova.” 

Orlando Furioso^ xxiv. 57. 

But Zerbino’s inscription was simply " Armatura d’Orlando Paladino,” and 
the quotation is merely the poet’s gloss upon it. 

2 Cachopin, or Gachupin, a word of Indian origin, and applied to Span- 
iards living in or returned from the Indies. Laredo is a seaport close to 
Santander, where also the Cachopins were numerous, as appears from a 
quaint inscription on one of the houses quoted by Bowie. 

3 Hartzenbusch in his anxiety for precision alters this, as he considers 
that El Toboso, being about seven leagues from ArgamaSilla, cannot be 
properly described as " near it. 

* It is hardly necessary to observe that these high mountains in the 
neighborhood of Argamasilla are purely imaginary. The nearest that 
could by any stretch of courtesy be called high would be those of the 
Toledo Sierra some sixty or seventy miles distant. 


84 


DON QUIXOTE. 


with garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of 
them of 3’ew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carry- 
ing a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and branches, 
on seeing which one of the goatherds said, “ Those who come 
there are the bearers of Chrysostom’s body, and the foot of 
that mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury 
him.” They therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did 
so by the time those who came had laid the bier upon the 
ground, and four of them with sharp pickaxes were digging a 
grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted each other 
courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who accom- 
panied him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered 
with flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, 
to all appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing even 
in death that in life he had been of comely features and gal- 
lant bearing.. Around him on the bier itself were laid some 
books, and several papers open and folded; and those who 
were looking on as well as those who were opening the 
grave and all the others who were there preserved a strange 
silence, until one of those who had borne the body said to 
another, “ Observe carefully, Ambrosio, if this is the place 
Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what he 
directed in his will should be so strictly complied with. 

“ This is the place,” answered Ambrosio, for in it many a 
time did my poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. 
Here it was, he told me, that he saw for the first time that 
mortal enemy of the human race, and here, too, for the first 
time he declared to her his passion, as honorable as it was de- 
voted, and here it was that at last Marcela ended by scorning 
and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his wretched 
life to a close ; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he 
desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion.” ^ Then 
turning to Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say. 
That body, sirs, on which you are looking with compassion- 
ate eyes, was the abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed 
a vast share of its riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, 
who was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy, unap- 
proached in gentle bearing, a phoenix in friendship, generous 
without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, 
and, in short, first in all that constitutes goodness and second 

' This is one of the passages selected by Biederniann as specimens of 
blunders made by Cervantes, but hy en memoria Cervantes does not 
mean to " commemorate,” but rather to " mark ” or " signalize.” 


CHAPTER XI I L 


85 


to none in all that makes up misfortune. He loved deeply, 
he was hated ; he adored, he was scorned ; he wooed a wild 
beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried 
to the wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was 
made the prey of death in the mid-course of life, cut short by 
a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalize in the mem- 
ory of mankind, as these papers which you see could fully 
prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to the fire 
after having consigned his body to the earth.’’ 

You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than 
their owner himself,” said Vivaldo, for it is neither right nor 
proper to do the will of one who enjoins what is wholly un- 
reasonable ; it would not have been reasonable in Augustus 
Caesar had he permitted the directions left by the divine Man- 
tuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that, Senor Am- 
brosio, while you consign your friend’s body to the earth, you 
shmild not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the 
order in bitterness of heart, it is not right that you should ir- 
rationally obey it. On the contrary, by granting life to those 
papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live forever, to serve as a 
warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling 
into like danger : for I and all of us who have come here know 
already the story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken 
friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of 
his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life ; 
from which sad story may be gathered how great was the 
cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of 
your friendship, together with the end awaiting those who 
pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes. 
Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he 
was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left 
our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes 
that which when heard of had so moved our compassion, and 
in consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if 
we might by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosio, or at 
least I on my own account entreat you, that instead of burning 
those papers you allow me to carry away some of them.” 

And without waiting for the shepherd’s answer, he stretched 
out his hand and took up some of those that were nearest to 
him ; seeing which Ambrosio said, Out of courtesy, senor, I 
wiir grant your request as to those you have taken, but it is 
idle to expect me to abstain from burning the remainder.” 


86 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Yivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, 
opened one of them at once, and saw that its title was Lay 
of Despair/’ 

Ainbrosio hearing it said, That is the last paper the un- 
happy man wrote ; and that you may see, senor, to what an 
end his misfortunes brought him, read it so that you may be 
heard, for you will have time enough for that while we are 
waiting for the grave to be dug.” 

I will do so very willingly,” said Vivaldo ; and as all the 
bystanders were equally eager they gathered round him, and 
he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE 
DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT 
LOOKED FOR.^ 

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM.^ 

Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire 
The ruthless rigor of thy tyranny 
Erom tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed, 

The very Hell will I constrain to lend 

This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe 

To serve my need of fitting utterance. 

And as I strive to body forth the tale 

* There is here a play upon the words desesperados.^ " despairing,” and 
no esperados^ " not looked for : ” many of the headings to the chapters 
contain some verbal conceit of this kinA 

^ The *' Lay of Chrysostom ” must not be judged of by a translation. 
The original is not so much a piece of poetry, as a fantasia in rhyme and 
an experiment in versification. Whether Italian or Spanish, the canzone 
or cancion is from its style hard to translate into our matter-of-fact Eng- 
lish, but the difficulty here is increased by the peculiarly complex stanza 
and intricate system of interlaced rhymes which Cervantes adopted, as 
well as by the inimitable rhythm and harmony of the lines. One pecu- 
liarity, borrowed, it may be, from Garcilaso, is that of a line with a 
medial rhyme to the termination of the preceding line, which produces a 
cadence that falls upon the ear like that of waves upon a distant shore. 
It might be possible to imitate the arrangement of rhymes, but to imitate 
the effect or reproduce the melody in our consonantal language would be 
an utter impossibility. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


87 


Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done, 

Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along 
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain. 

Then listen, not to dulcet harmony. 

But to a discord wrung by mad despair 
Out of this bosom’s depths of bitterness. 

To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine. 

The lion’s roar, the fierce wolf’s savage howl, 

The horrid hissing of the scaly snake. 

The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed. 

The crow’s ill-boding croak, the hollow moan 
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea, 

The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull. 

The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,^ 

The envied owl’s sad note,^ the wail of woe 
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell, 

Commingled in one sound, confusing sense. 

Let all these come to aid my soul’s complaint. 

For pain like mine demands new modes of song. 

No echoes of that discord shall be heard 
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks 
Of olive-bordered Betis ; ® to the rocks 
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told, 

And by a lifeless tongue in living words 3 
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores. 

Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls j 
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms 
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile. 

For, though it be to solitudes remote 
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound 
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate 
Shall carry them to all the spacious world. 

Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies 
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true 3 

' " And the hoarse sobbing of the widowed dove.” 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

* The owl was the only bird that witnessed the Crucifixion, and it be- 
came for that reason an object of envy to the other birds, so much so that 
it can not appear in the daytime without being persecuted. 

® Betis — i.e. the Guadalquivir. 


88 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And deadly is the force of jealoucy : 

Long absence makes of life a dreary void ; 

No hope of happiness can give repose 
To him that ever fears to be forgot ; 

And death, inevitable, waits in all. 

But I, by some strange miracle, live on 
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain; 

Racked by suspicion as by certainty ; 

Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone. 

And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray 
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom ; 

Nor do I look for it in my despair ; 

But rather clinging to a cureless woe, 

All hope do I abjure for evermore. 

Can there be hope where fear is ? Were it well, 
When far more certain are the grounds of fear ? 
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy. 

If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears ? 
Who would not give free access to distrust. 

Seeing disdain unveiled, and — bitter change ! — 
All his suspicions turned to certainties. 

And the fair truth transformed into a lie ? 

Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love 
Oh, Jealousy ! put chains upon these hands. 

And bind me with thy strongest cord. Disdain. 

But, woe is me ! triumphant over all. 

My sufferings drown the memory of you. 

And now I die, and since there is no hope 
Of happiness for me in life or death. 

Still to my fantasy I fll fondly cling. 

I ’ll say that he is wise who loveth well. 

And that the soul most free is that most bound 
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love. 

I ’ll say that she who is mine enemy 
In that fair body hath as fair a mind. 

And that her coldness is but my desert. 

And that by virtue of the pain he sends 
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway. 

Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore. 

And wearing out the wretched shred of life 


CHAPTER XIV. 


89 


To which I am reduced by her disdain, 

I ’ll give this soul and body to the winds, 

All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store. 

Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause 
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe. 

As by this wounded bosom thou canst see 
How willingly thy victim I become. 

Let not my death, if haply worth a tear. 

Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes ; 

I would not have thee expiate in aught 
The crime of having made my heart thy prey 5 
But rather let thy laughter gayly ring 
And prove my death to be thy festival. 

Fool that I am to bid thee ! well I know 
Thy glory gains by my untimely end. 

And now it is the time ; from Hell’s abyss 
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus 
Heaving the cruel stbne, come Tityus 
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come. 

And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil ; 

And all into this breast transfer their pains, 

And (if such tribute to despair be due) 

Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge 
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud. 

Let the three-headed guardian of the gate. 

And all the monstrous progeny of hell. 

The doleful concert join : a lover dead 
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies. 

Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone 
Forth from this sorrowing heart : my misery 
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth ; 

Then banish sadness even in the tomb. 

The Lay of Chrysostom ” met with the approbation of the 
listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree 
with what he had heard of Marcela’s reserve and propriety, 
for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and 
absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of 
Idarcela j to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well 


90 


DON QUIXOTE. 


his friend’s most secret thoughts, Senor, to remove that doubt 
I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he 
was away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily sepa- 
rated himself, to try if absence would act with him as it is 
wont ; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the 
banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded 
as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom ; and thus the truth 
of what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains un- 
shaken, and with her envy itself should not and caii not find 
any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very 
scornful.” 

“ That is true,” said Yivaldo ; and as he was about to read 
another paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he was 
stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unex- 
pectedly presented itself to their eyes ; for on the summit of the 
rock where they were digging the grave there appeared the 
shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty exceeded its 
reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed 
upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed 
to see her were not less amazed than those who had never seen 
her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed 
her, with manifest indignation, Art thou come, cruel basilisk 
of these mountains, to see if haply in thy presence blood will 
flow from the wounds of this wretched being thy cruelty has 
robbed of life ; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy 
humors that thou art come ; or like another pitless Nero to look 
down from that height upon the ruin of thy Borne in ashes ; or 
in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the un- 
grateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin’s ? ^ Tell 
us quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst 
have, for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never failed 
to obey thee in life, I will make all these who call themselves 
his friends obey thee, though he be dead.” 

1 come not, Ambrosio, for any of the purposes thou hast 
named,” replied Marcela, but to defend myself and to prove 
how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow 
and for Chrysostom’s death ; and therefore I ask all of you that 
are here to give me your attention, for it will not take much 
time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense. 

' It was the corpse of Servius Tullius that was so treated by his daughter 
Tullia, the wife of Tarquin, but Cervantes followed an old ballad in the 
Flor de Enamorados^ which has, Tullia hija de Tarquino. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


91 


Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that 
in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me ; and for 
the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound 
to love you. By that natural understanding which God has 
given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but 1 
can not see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved 
for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it ; besides, it 
may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be 
ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, ^ 1 
love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though 
I be ugly.’ But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it 
does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore alike, for 
it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing the 
eye without winning the affection ; and if every sort of beauty 
excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely 
to and fro unable to make choice of any ; for as there is an in- 
finity of beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclina- 
tions, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and 
must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I be- 
lieve it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for 
no other reason but that you say you love me ? Nay — tell 
me — had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, 
could I with justice complain of you for not loving me ? More- 
over, you must remember that the beauty I possess W'as no 
choice of mine, for be it what it may. Heaven of its bounty 
gave it me without my asking or choosing it ; and as the viper, 
though it kills with it, does not deserve to be blamed for the 
poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither do I deserve 
reproach for being beautiful ; for beauty in a modest woman is 
like fire at a distance or a sharp sword ; the one does not 
burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too near. 
Honor and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which 
the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful ; but 
if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and 
charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her 
beauty part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone 
strives with all his might and energy to rob her of it ? I was 
born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude 
of the fields ; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the 
clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and 
waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire 
afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with 


92 


DON QUIXOTE. 


love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived, and 
if their longings live on hope — and I have given none to Chry- 
sostom or to any other — it cannot justly be said that the death 
of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than 
my cruelty that killed him ; and if it be made a charge against 
me that his wishes were honorable, and that therefore I was 
bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot 
where now his grave is made he declared to me his purity of 
purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, 
and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retire- 
ment and the spoils of my beauty ; and if, after this open 
avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against the 
wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his 
infatuation ? If I had encouraged him, I should have been 
false ; if I had gratified him, I should have acted against my 
own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in spite 
of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink you 
now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my 
charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him 
whose encouraged hopes have proved vain give way to despair, 
let him whom I shall entice flatter himself, let him whom I 
shall receive boast; but let not him to whom I make no 
promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither 
entice nor receive call me cruel or homicide. It has not been 
so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to ex- 
pect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration 
serve for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be 
understood from this time forth that if any one dies for me it is 
not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can 
give no cause for jealousy to any, and candor is not to be con- 
founded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and 
basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let 
him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service ; who calls 
me wayward, seek not my acquaintance ; who calls me cruel, 
pursue me not ; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrate- 
ful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, 
know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impatience and vio- 
lent passion killed him, why should my modest behavior and 
circumspection be blamed ? If I preserve my purity <in the 
society of the trees, why should he who would have me pre- 
serve it among men, seek to rob me of it ? I have, as you 
know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others ; my 


CHAPTER XIV. 


93 


taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint ; 1 
neither love nor hate any one ; I do not deceive this one or 
court that, or trifle with one or play with another. The mod- 
est converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care 
of my goats are my recreations ; my desires are bounded by 
these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contem- 
plate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels 
to its primeval abode.’’ 

With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she 
turned and passed into the thickest part of a wood that was 
hard by, leaving all who were there lost in admiration as 
much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some — those 
wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright 
eyes — made as though they would follow her, heedless of 
the frank declaration they had heard ; seeing which, and 
deeming this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry 
in aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on 
the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice : 

Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow 
the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce in- 
dignation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory argu- 
ments that little or no fault is to be found with her for 
the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from yield- 
ing to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason, 
instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice 
be honored and esteemed by all the good people of the world, 
for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to 
such a virtuous resolution.” 

Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or 
because Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good 
friend, none of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot 
until, having finished the grave and burned Chrysostom’s 
papers, they laid his body in it, not without many tears from 
those who stood by. They closed the grave with a heavy 
stone until a slab was ready which Antonio said he meant to 
have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this 
effect : 

Beneath the stone before your eyes 
The body of a lover lies ; 

In life he was a shepherd swain, 

In death a victim to disdain. 

Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair. 

Was she that drove him to despair, 

And Love hath made her his ally 
For spreading wide his tyranny. 


94 


DON QUIXOTE. 


They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and 
branches, and all expressing their condolence with his friend 
Ambrosio, took their leave. Vivaldo and his companion did 
the same ; and Don Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to 
the travellers, who pressed him to come with them to Seville, 
as being such a convenient place for finding adventures, for 
they presented themselves in every street and round every cor- 
ner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them 
for their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him 
a favor, and said that for the present he would not, and must 
not go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of 
highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full. 
Seeing his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to 
press him further, and once more bidding him farewell, they 
left him and pursued their journey, in the course of which they 
did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom as 
well as the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part, resolved 
to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make offer to 
her of all the service he could render her ; but things did not 
fall out with him as he expected, according to what is related 
in the course of this veracious history, of which the Second 
Part ends here. 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT 
DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH 
CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS. 

The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates that as soon as Don 
Quixote took leave of his hosts and all who had been present 
at the burial of Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the 
same wood which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, 
and after having wandered for more than two hours in all direc- 
tions in search of her without finding her, they came to a halt 
in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which ran a pleas- 
ant cool stream that invited and even compelled them to pass 
there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was 
beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho 
dismounted, and turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on 


/ 


CHAPTER XV. 


95 


the grass that was there in abundance, they ransacked the 
alforjas, and without any ceremony very peacefully and soci- 
ably master and man made their repast on what they found in 
them. Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Koci- 
nante, feeling sure, from what he knew of his staidness and 
freedom from incontinence, that all the mares in the Cordova 
pastures would not lead him into an impropriety. Chance, 
however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained 
it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician 
ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan ^ carriers, whose way it 
is to take their midday rest with their teams in places and 
spots where grass and water abound; and that where Don 
Quixote chanced to be suited the Yanguesans’ purpose very 
well. It so happened, then, that Eocinante took a fancy to 
disport himself with their ladyships the ponies, and abandon- 
ing his usual gait and demeanor as he scented them, he, with- 
out asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and 
hastened to make known his wishes to them ; they, however, 
it seemed, preferred their pasture to him, and received him 
with their heels and teeth to such effect that they soon broke 
his girths and left him naked without a saddle to cover him ; 
but what must have been worse to him was that the carriers, 
seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came run- 
ning up armed with stakes,^ and so belabored him that they 
brought him sorely battered to the ground. 

By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed 
the drubbing of Eocinante, came up panting, and said Don 
Quixote to Sancho, So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these 
are not knights but base folk of low birth : I mention it be- 
cause thou canst lawfully aid me in taking due vengeance for 
the insult offered to Eocinante before our eyes.^’ 

What the devil vengeance can we take,” answered Sancho, 
if they are more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, 
indeed, perhaps, not more than one and a half ? ” 

count for a hundred,” replied Don Quixote, and with- 
out more words he drew his sword and attacked the Yangue- 
sans, and incited and impelled by the example of his master, 
Sancho did the same ; and to begin with, Don Quixote deliv- 
ered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather jerkin 

^ i.e. of Yanguas, a district in the north of Old Castile, near Logrono. 

* Used by the carriers in loading their beasts to prop up the pack on 
one side while they are adjusting the balance on the other. 


96 


DON QUIXOTE. 


he wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The 
Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two men 
while they were so many, betook themselves to their stakes, 
and driving the two into the middle they began to lay on with 
great zeal and energy ; in fact, at the second blow they brought 
Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote fared the same way, all 
his skill and high mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed 
it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet 
risen ; whereby it may seem how furiously stakes can pound 
in angry boorish hands. ^ Then, seeing the mischief they had 
done, the Yanguesans with all the haste they could loaded 
their team and pursued their journey, leaving the two adven- 
turers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood. 

Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close 
to his master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, 
Senor Don Quixote, ah, Sehor Don Quixote ! 

“ What wouldst tho.u, brother Sancho ? answered Don Qui- 
xote in the same feeble suffering tone as Sancho. 

I would like, if it were possible,’^ answered Sancho Panza, 
your worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of 
the fiery Blas,^ if it be that you have any to hand there ; per- 
haps it will serve for broken bones as well as for wounds.’’ 

If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should 
we want ? ” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but I swear to thee, Sancho 
Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, ere two days are over, 
unless fortune orders otherwise, I mean to have it in my posses- 
sion, or my hand will have lost its cunning.” 

But in how many ways does your worship think we shall 
have the use of our feet ? ” answered Sancho Panza. 

For myself I must say I can not guess how many,” said the 
battered knight Don Quixote ; but I take all the blame upon 
myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword against 
men who were not dubbed knights like myself, and so I be- 
lieve that in punishment for having transgressed the laws of 
chivalry the God of battles has permitted this chastisement 
to be administered to me ; for which reason, brother Sancho, 
it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the matter which 
I am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much impor- 
tance to the welfare of both of us. It is that when thou shalt 

^ An allusion probably to the story of Diego Perez de Vargas, "the 
pounder.” ( V. chapter viii.) 

* Sancho’s blunder in the name of Fierabras is droller in the original, as 
he says, del feo Bias., " of the ugly Bias.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


97 


see rabble of this sort offering us insult thou art not to wait 
till I draw sword against them, for I shall not do so at all j but 
do thou draw sword and chastise them to thy heart’s content, 
and if any knights come to their aid and defence I will take 
care to defend thee and assail them with all my might ; and 
thou hast already seen by a thousand signs and proofs what the 
might of this strong arm of mine is equal to ” — so uplifted 
had the poor gentleman become through the victory over the 
stout Biscayan. 

But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master’s admoni- 
tion as to let it pass without saying in reply, “ Senor, I am a 
man of peace, meek and quiet, and I can put up with any 
affront because I have a wife and children to support and 
bring up j so let it be likewise a hint to your worship, as it 
can not be a mandate, that on no account will I draw sword 
either against clown or against . knight, and that here before 
God I forgive all the insults that have been offered me or may 
be offered me, whether they ha^e been, are, or shall be offered 
me by high or low, rich or poor, noble or commoner, not ex- 
cepting any rank or condition whatsoever.” 

To all which his master said in reply, “ I wish I had breath 
enough to speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on 
this side would abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, 
the mistake thou makest. Come now, sinner, suppose the 
wind of fortune, hitherto so adverse, should turn in our favor, 
filling the sails of our desires so that safely and without im- 
pediment we put into port in some one of those islands I have 
promised thee, how would it be with thee if on winning it 
T made thee lord of it ? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh 
impossible through not being a knight nor having any desire 
to be one, nor possessing the courage nor the will to avenge 
insults or defend thy lordship ; for thou must know that in 
newly conquered kingdoms and provinces the minds of the 
inhabitants are never so quiet nor so well disposed to the new 
lord that there is no fear of their making some move to change 
matters once more, and try, as they say, what chance may do 
for them ; so it is essential that the new possessor should have 
good sense to enable him to govern, and valor to attack and 
defend himself, whatever may befall him.” 

In what has now befallen us,” answered Sancho, I ’d 
have been well pleased to have that good sense and that 
valor your worship speaks of, but swear on the faith of a poor 

VoL. I. — 7 


98 


DON QUIXOTE. 


man I am more fit for plasters than for arguments. See if 
your worship can get up, and let us help Eocinante, though he 
does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of all this 
thrashing. I never thought it of Eocinante, for I took him to 
be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After all, they 
say right that it takes a long time to come to know people, 
and that there is nothing sure in this life. Who would have 
said that, after such mighty slashes as your worship gave that 
unlucky knight-errant, there was coming, travelling post and 
at the very heels of them, such a great storm of sticks as has 
fallen upon our shoulders ? ” 

“ And yet thine, Sancho,’’ replied Don Quixote, ought to 
be used to such squalls ; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine 
linen, it is plain they must feel more keenly the pain of this 
mishap, and if it were not that I imagine — why do I say im- 
agine ? — know of a certainty that all these annoyances are 
very necessary accompaniments of the calling of arms, 1 
would lay me down here to die of pure vexation.^’ 

To this the squire replied, Sefior, as these mishaps are what 
one reaps of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or 
if they have their own fixed times for coming to pass ; because 
it seems to me that after two harvests we shall be no good 
for the third, unless God in his infinite mercy helps us.’’ 

Know, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, that the 
life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and 
reverses, and neither more nor less is it within immediate 
possibility for knights-errant to become kings and emperors, 
as experience has shown in the case of many different knights 
with whose histories I am thoroughly acquainted ; and I could 
tell thee now, if the pain would let me, of some who simply 
by might of arm have risen to the high stations I have men- 
tioned ; and those same, both before and after, experienced 
divers misfortunes and miseries ; for the valiant Amadis of 
Gaul found himself in the power of his mortal enemy Ar- 
calaus the magician, who, it is positively asserted, holding 
him captive, gave him more than two hundred lashes with 
the reins of his horse while tied to one of the pillars of a 
court ; ^ and moreover there is a certain recondite author of 
no small authority who says that the Knight of Phoebus, 
being caught in a certain pitfall which opened under his 
feet in a certain castle, on falling found himself bound hand 
' There is no account of any such flogging in the Amadis, 


CHAPTER XV. 


99 


and foot in a deep pit underground, where they administered 
to him one of those things they call clysters, of sand and 
snow-water, that Avell-nigh finished him ; and if he had not 
been succored in that sore extremity by a sage, a great 
friend of his, it would have gone very hard with the poor 
knight ; so I may well suffer in company with such worthy 
folk, for greater were the indignities which they had to 
suffer than those which we suffer. For I would have thee 
know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments which 
happen by chance to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this 
is laid down in the law of the duel in express words : if, 
for instance, the cobbler strikes another with the last which 
he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece of wood, it 
can not be said for that reason that he whom he struck with 
it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst imag- 
ine that because we have been drubbed in this affray we 
have therefore suffered any indignity ; for the arms those 
men carried, with which they pounded us, were nothing more 
than their stakes, and not one of them, so far as I remember, 
carried rapier, sword, or dagger.’^ 

They gave me no time to see that much,” answered Sancho, 
for hardly had I laid hand on my tizona ^ when they signed 
the cross on my shoulders with their sticks in such style that 
they took the sight out of my eyes and the strength out of my 
feet, stretching me where I now lie, and where thinking of 
whether all those stake-strokes were an indignity or not gives 
me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they 
will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my 
shoulders.” 

For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza,” said Don 
Quixote, that there is no recollection which time does not put 
an end to, and no pain which death does not remove.” 

And what greater misfortune can there be,” replied Panza, 
than the one that waits for time to put an end to it and death 
to remove it ? If our mishap were one of those that are cured 
with a couple of plasters, it would not be so bad ; but I am 
beginning to think that all the plasters in a hospital almost 
wonT be enough to put us right.” 

No more of that : pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, 
as I mean to do,” returned Don Quixote, and let us see how 

* Tizon was tht name of one of the Cid’s two famous swords ; the word 
was altered into Tizona to suit the trochaic rhythm of the ballads. It 
means simply " brand.” 


iUO 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Rocinante is, for it seems to me that not the least share of this 
mishap has fallen to the lot of the poor beast/^ 

“ There is nothing wonderful in that,’’ replied Sancho, 
since he is a knight-errant too ; what I wonder at is that my 
beast should have come off scot-free where we come out 
scotched.” ^ 

Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to 
bring relief to it,” said Don Quixote ; “ I say so because this 
little beast may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying 
me hence to some castle where I may be cured of my w'ounds. 
And moreover T shall not hold it any dishonor to be so mounted, 
for I remember having read how the good old Silenus, the tutor 
and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he entered the 
city of the hundred gates,^ went very contentedly mounted on 
a handsome ass.” 

It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,” 
answered Sancho, but there is a great difference between 
going mounted and going slung like a sack of manure.” ® 

To which Don Quixote replied, ^‘Wounds received in battle 
confer honor instead of taking it away ; and so, friend Panza, 
say no more, but, as I told thee before, get up as well as thou 
canst and put me on top of thy beast in whatever fashion 
pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere i\ight come on and 
surprise us in these wilds.” 

And yet I have heard your worship say,” observed Panza, 
that it is very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and 
deserts the best part of the year, and that they esteem it very 
good fortune.” 

^^That is,” said Don Quixote, ^^when they can not help it, 
or when they are in love ; and so true is this that there have 
been knights who have remained two years on rocks, in sun- 

• In this characteristic comment of Sancho’s, Hartzenbusch corrects 
Caballero andante — " knight-errant ” — into cahalleria andante — " horse- 
errant ” (entirely overlooking the tambien — " too ”) , and with profound 
gravity reminds us that Rocinante is a horse. Mr. J. P. Collier’s ‘'old 
corrector ” in the 1632 folio Shakespeare could hardly do worse than this. 
The play upon the words sin costas and sin costillas cannot be rendered 
literally ; sin costillas — " without ribs ” — means also in popular parlance 
bankrupt, " cleaned out.” 

* Thebes ; but that of the hundred gates was the Egyptian, not the 
Boeotian Thebes, which is the one here referred to. 

^ The grave drollery of Sancho’s matter-of-fact reply is lost in transla- 
tion, inasmuch as in Spanish to go mounted ” — ir caballero — implies 
also "to go like a gentleman.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


101 


shine and shade and all the inclemencies of heaven, without 
their ladies knowing anything of it ; and one of these was 
Amadis w’hen, under the name of Beltenebros, he took up his 
abode on the Pena Pobre for — I know not if it was eight 
years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckon- 
ing ; at any rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not 
what pique the Princess Oriana had against him ; but no more 
of this now, Sancho, and make haste before some other mishap 
like Rocinante’s befalls the ass/^ 

The very devil would be in it in that case,’^ said Sancho ; 
and letting off thirty ohs,” and sixty sighs, and a hundred 
and twenty maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it 
was that had brought him there, he raised himself, stopping 
half-way bent like a Turkish bow without power to bring him- 
self upright, but with all his pains he saddled his ass, who too 
had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the excessive license of 
the day ; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for him, had he 
possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly neither 
Sancho nor his master would have been behind him.^ To be 
brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Roci- 
nante with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he 
proceeded more or less in the direction in which it seemed to 
him the high road might be ; and, as chance was conducting 
their affairs for them from good to better, he had not gone a 
short league when the road came in sight, and on it he per- 
ceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the delight of 
Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it 
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, 
and the dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled 
they had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all 
his team,2 without any further controversy. 

^ This is another example of the loose construction and confusion into 
which Cervantes fell at times. Of course he meant to say that Rocinante 
would not have been behind them in complaining. 

® The entrance of a Spanish 'venta or posada is almost always a wide 
gateway through which both man and beast enter to their respective 
quarters. The high road— rawiwo real — was the Madrid and Seville 
road, and on it, or some little distance one side or the other of it, all the 
adventures of the First Part are supposed to take place. From its dis- 
tance from the Sierra Morena this venta would be somewhere near Val- 
depenas, in the great wine-growing district. The scene of the release of 
the galley slaves in chapter xxii. would be near Almuradiel. ( V. map.) 


102 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN 
THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE. 

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, 
asked Sancho what was amiss with him. Sancho answered 
that it was nothing, only that he had fallen down from a rock 
and had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper had a wife 
whose disposition was not such as those of her calling com- 
monly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for 
the sufferings of her neighbors, so she at once set about tend- 
ing Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely 
girl, help her in taking care of her guest. There was besides 
in the inn, as servant, an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat 
poll, and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in 
the other. The elegance of her shape, to be sure, made up for 
all her defects ; she did not measure seven palms from head to 
foot, and her shoulders, which over-weighted her somewhat, 
made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This 
graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made 
up a very bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed 
evident signs of having formerly served for many years as a 
straw-loft, in which there was also quartered a carrier whose 
bed was placed a little beyond our Don Quixote’s, and, though 
only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much 
the advantage of it, as Don Quixote’s consisted simply of four 
rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for 
thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets, which, 
were they not seen through the rents to be wool, would to the 
touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of 
buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which any one 
that chose might have counted without missing one in the 
reckoning. 

On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the 
hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from 
top to toe, while Maritornes — for that was the name of the 
Asturian — held the light for them, and while plastering him, 
the hostess, observing how full of wheals Don Quixote was in 
some places, remarked that this had more the look of blows 
than of a fall. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


103 


It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many 
points and projections, and that each of them had left its 
mark. “ Pray, sehora,’’ he added, “ manage to save some tow, 
as there will be no want of some one to use it, for my loins too 
are rather sore.” 

“ Then you must have fallen too,” said the hostess. 

I did not fall,” said Sancho Panza, but from the shock I 
got at seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as 
if I had had a thousand thwacks.” 

That may well be,” said the young girl, for it has many 
a time happened to me to dream that I was falling down from 
a tower and never coming to the ground, and when I awoke 
from the dream to find myself as weak and shaken as if I had 
really fallen.” 

There is the point, senora,” replied Sancho Panza, “ that 
I without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am 
now, find myself with scarcely less wheals than my master, Don 
Quixote.” 

How is the gentleman called ? ” asked Maritornes the 
Asturian. 

Don Quixote of La Mancha,” answered Sancho Panza, 
and he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the best and 
stoutest that have been seen in the world this long time 
past.” 

What is a knight-adventurer ? ” said the lass. 

Are you so new in the world as not to know ? ” answered 
Sancho Panza. Well, then, you must know, sister, that a 
knight-adventurer is a thing that in two words is seen drubbed 
and emperor, that is to-day the most miserable and needy 
being in the world, and to-morrow will have two or three 
crowns of kingdoms to give his squire.” 

Then how is it,” said the hostess, “ that, belonging to so 
good a master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, 
even so much as a county ? ” 

It is too soon yet,” answered Sancho, for we have only 
been a month going in quest of adventures, and so far we 
have met with nothing that can be called one, for it will 
happen that when one thing is looked for another thing is 
found ; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this 
wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would 
not change my hopes for the best title in Spain.” 

To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very 


104 


DON QUIXOTE, 


attentively, and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and 
taking the hostess by the hand he said to her, Believe me, 
fair lady, you may call yourself fortunate in having in this 
castle of yours sheltered my person, which is such that if I do 
not myself praise it, it is because of what is commonly said, 
that self-praise debaseth ; ^ but my squire will inform you 
who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever in- 
scribed on my memory the service you have rendered me in 
order to tender you my gratitude while life shall last me ; and 
would to Heaven love held me not so enthralled and subject 
to its laws and to the eyes of that fair ingrate whom I name 
between my teeth, but that those of this lovely damsel might 
be the masters of my liberty.’’ 

The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes 
listened in bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant, 
for they understood about as much of them as if he had been 
talking Greek, though they could perceive they were all meant 
for expressions of good-will and blandishments ; and not being 
accustomed to this kind of language, they stared at him and 
wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man of a 
different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him 
in pot-house phrase for his civility they left him, while the 
Asturian gave her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less 
than his master. 

The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation 
that night, and she had given him her word that when the 
guests were quiet and the family asleep she would come in 
search of him and meet his wishes unreservedly. And it is 
said of this good lass that she never made promises of the kind 
without fulfilling them, even though she made them in a forest 
and without any witness present, for she plumed herself greatly 
on being a lady, and held it no disgrace to be in such an em- 
ployment as servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes 
and ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard, nar- 
row, wretched, rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the 
middle of this star-lit stable,^ and close beside it Sancho made 
his, which merely consisted of a rush mat and a blanket that 
looked as if it was of threadbare canvas, rather than of wool. 
Next to these two beds was that of the carrier, made up, as 

’ Prov. 6. 

* Estrellado seems to have puzzled most of the translators Shelton 
omits it, and Jervas renders it "illustrious.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


105 


has been said, of the pack-saddles and all the trappings of the 
two best mules he had, though there were twelve of them, 
sleek, plump, and in prime condition, for he was one of the 
rich carriers of Arevalo, according to the author of this history, 
who particularly mentions this carrier because he knew him 
very well, and they even say was in some degree a relation of 
his ; ^ besides which Cid Hamet Benengeli was a historian of 
great research and accuracy in all things, as is very evident 
since he would not pass over in silence those that have been 
already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they 
might be, an example that might be followed by those grave 
historians who relate transactions so curtly and briefly that we 
hardly get a taste of them, all the substance of the work being 
left in the ink-bottle from carelessness, perverseness, or igno- 
rance. A thousand blessings on the author of Tablante de 
Ricamonte,” and that of the other book in which the deeds of 
the Conde Tomillas are recounted ; with what minuteness they 
describe everything ! ^ 

To proceed, then : after having paid a visit to his team and 
given them their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on 
his pack-saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious Mari- 
tornes. Sancho was by this time plastered and had lain down, 
and though he strove to sleep the pain of his ribs would not let 
him, while Don Quixote with the pain of his, had his eyes as 
wide open as a hare’s. The inn was all in silence, and in the 
whole of it there was no light except that given by a lantern 
that hung burning in the middle of the gateway. This strange 
stillness, and the thoughts, always present to our knight’s 
mind, of the incidents described at every turn in the books that 
were the cause of his misfortune, conjured up to his imagina- 
tion as extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived, 
which was that he fancied himself to have reached a famous 
castle (for, as has been said, all the inns he lodged in were 
castles to his eyes), and that the daughter of the innkeeper 
was daughter of the lord of the castle, and that she, won by his 
high-bred bearing, had fallen in love with him, and had prom- 

’ The carrier business, Pellicer points out, was extensively followed by 
the Moriscoes, as it afforded them an excuse for absenting themselvei 
from Mass. 

^ Oronica de Tablante de Ricamonte.^ a romance of uncertain date and 
origin, based upon the Arthurian legend. The Conde Tomillas was a 
personage at the Court of Charlemagne mentioned in the Montesinos 
ballads, but no book of his deeds is known. 


106 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ised to come to his bed for awhile that night without the 
knowledge of her parents ; and holding as solid fact all this 
fantasy that he had constructed, he began to feel uneasy and to 
consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to en- 
counter, and he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to 
his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen Guine- 
vere herself and the dame Quintanona should present them- 
selves before him. 

While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time 
and the hour — an unlucky one for him — arrived for the 
Asturian to come, who in her smock, with bare feet and her 
hair gathered into a fustian coif, with noiseless and cautious 
steps entered the chamber where the three were quartered, in 
quest of the carrier ; but scarcely had she gained the door 
when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in 
spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribs, he stretched out 
his arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who 
went all doubled up and in silence with her hands before her 
feeling for her lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote, 
who grasped her tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards 
him, while she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on 
the bed. He then felt her smock, and although it was of sack- 
cloth it appeared to him to be of the finest and softest silk : on 
her wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they had the 
sheen of precious Orient pearls : her hair, which in some meas- 
ure resembled a horse’s mane, he rated as threads of the 
brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun 
himself : her breath, which no doubt smelt of yesterday’s stale 
salad, seemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from 
her mouth ; and, in short, he drew her portrait in his imagina- 
tion with the same features and in the same style as that which 
he had seen in his books of the other princess who, smitten by 
love, came with all the adornments that are here set down, to 
see the sorely wounded knight ; and so great was the poor 
gentleman’s blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor any- 
thing else about the good lass that would have made any but a 
carrier vomit, were enough to undeceive him ; on the contrary, 
he was persuaded he had the goddess of beauty in his arms, 
and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in a low, 
tender voice, “ Would that I found myself, lovely and exalted 
lady, in a position to repay such a favor as that which you, by 
the sight of your great beauty, have granted me ; but fortune, 


CHAPTER XVL 


107 


wliich. is never weary of persecuting the good, has chosen to 
place me upon this bed, where I lie so bruised and broken that 
though my inclination would gladly comply with yours it is im- 
possible ; besides, to this impossibility another yet greater is to 
be added, which is the faith that I have pledged to the peer- 
less Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most secret thoughts ; 
and were it not that this stood in the way I should not be so 
insensible a knight as to miss the happy opportunity which 
your great goodness has offered me.” 

Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held 
so fast by Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the 
words he addressed to her, she strove without speaking to free 
herself. The worthy carrier, whose unholy thoughts kept him 
awake, was aware of his doxy the moment she entered the door, 
and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote said ; and 
jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with 
him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote’s bed and stood 
still to see what would come of this talk which he could not 
understand ; but when he perceived the wench struggling to 
get free and Don Quixote striving to hold her, not relishing the 
joke he raised his arm and delivered such a terrible cuff on the 
lank jaws of the amorous knight that he bathed all his mouth 
in blood, and not content with this he mounted on his ribs and 
with his feet tramped all over them at a pace rather smarter 
than a trot. The bed, which was somewhat crazy and not very 
firm on its feet, unable to bear the additional weight of the 
carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this 
the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be 
some brawl of Maritornes’, because after calling loudly to her 
he got no answer. With this suspicion he got up, and light- 
ing a lamp hastened to the quarter where he had heard the 
disturbance. The wench, seeing that her master was coming 
and knowing that his temper Avas terrible, frightened and panic- 
stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept,’ 
and crouching upon it made a ball of herself. 

The innkeeper came in exclaiming, Where art thou, strum- 
pet ? Of course this is some of thy work.” At this Sancho 
awoke, and feeling this mass almost on top of him fancied he 
had the nightmare and began to distribute fisticuffs all round, 
of which a certain share fell upon Maritornes, who, irritated 
by the pain and flinging modesty aside, paid back so many in 
* We were told just before that Sancho was unable to sleep. 


108 


DON QUIXOTE. 


return to Sancho that she woke him up in spite of himself. 
He then, finding himself so handled, by whom he knew not, 
raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with Mari- 
tornes, and he and she between them began the bitterest and 
drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrier, however, per- 
ceiving by the light of the innkeeper’s candle how it fared 
with his lady-love, quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the 
help she needed ; and the innkeeper did the same but with a 
different intention, for his was to chastise the lass, as he 
believed that beyond a doubt she alone was the cause of 
all the harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat, 
rat to rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho 
the lass, she him, and the innkeeper her, and all worked away 
so briskly that they did not give themselves a moment’s rest •, 
and the best of it was that the innkeeper’s lamp went out, and 
as they were left in the dark they all laid on one upon the 
other in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a sound spot 
left where a hand could light. 

It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn 
an officer of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of 
Toledo, who, also hearing the extraordinary noise of the con- 
flict, seized his staff and the tin case with his warrants, and 
made his way in the dark into the room crying, Hold ! in 
the name of this J urisdiction ! Hold ! in the name of the Holy 
Brotherhood ! ” The first that he came upon was the pum- 
melled Don Quixote, who lay stretched senseless on his back 
upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand falling on the beard 
as he felt about, he continued to cry, Help for the Juris- 
diction ! ” but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold 
of did not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and 
that those in the room were his murderers, and with this sus- 
picion he raised his voice still higher, calling out, Shut the 
inn gate ; see that no one goes out ; they have killed a man 
here ! ” This cry startled them all, and each dropped the con- 
test at the point at which the voice reached him. The inn- 
keeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his pack-saddles, 
the lass to her crib ; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho 
alone were unable to move from where they were. The officer 
on this let go Don Quixote’s beard, and went out to look for a 
light to search for and apprehend the culprits ; but not find- 
ing one, as the innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lan- 
tern on retreating to his room, he was compelled to have 


CHAPTER XVII. 


109 


recourse to the hearth, where after much time and trouble he 
lit another lamp. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES 
WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE 
SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MIS- 
FORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE. 

By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon ; 
and in the same tone of voice in which he had called to his 
squire the day before when he lay stretched in the vale of 
the stakes,” ^ he began calling to him now, Sancho, my 
friend, art thou asleep ? sleepest thou, friend Sancho ? ” 
How can I sleep, curses on it ! ” returned Sancho discon- 
tentedly and bitterly, when it is plain that all the devils 
have been at me this night ? ” 

“ Thou mayest well believe that,” answered Don Quixote, 
because, either I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for 
thou must know — but this that I am now about to tell thee 
thou must swear to keep secret until after my death.” 

“ I swear it,” answered Sancho. 

“ I say so,” continued Don Quixote, because I hate taking 
away any one^s good name.” 

I say,” repeated Sancho, that I swear to hold my tongue 
about it till the end of your worship’s days, and God grant I 
may be able to let it out to-morrow.” 

‘‘Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
“ that thou wouldst see me dead so soon ? ” 

“ It is not for that,” replied Sancho, “ but because I hate 
keeping things long, and I don’t want them to grow rotten 
with me from over-keeping.” 

“ At any rate,” said Don Quixote, “ I have more confidence 
in thy affection and good nature ; and so I would have thee 
know that this night there befell me one of the strangest ad- 
ventures that I could describe, and to relate it to thee briefly 
thou must know that a little while ago the daughter of the 
lord of this castle came to me, and that she is the most ele- 

* The words quoted are the beginning of one of the Cid ballads, "Por ei 
val de las estacas.” 


110 


DON QUIXOTE. 


gaiit and beautiful damsel that could be found in the wide 
world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her person ! 
of her lively wit ! of other secret matters which, to preserve 
the fealty I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, 1 shall pass 
over unnoticed and in silence ! I will only tell thee that, 
either fate being envious of so great a boon placed in my 
hands by good fortune, or perhaps (and this is more probable) 
this castle being, as I have already said, enchanted, at the 
time when I was engaged in the sweetest and most amorous 
discourse with her, there came, without my seeing or knowing 
whence it came, a hand attached to some arm of some huge 
giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have them 
all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way 
that I am in a worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, 
on account of Rocinante’s misbehavior, inflicted on us the in- 
jury thou knowest of ; whence I conjecture that there must be 
some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this damsel’s 
beauty, and that it is not for me.” 

‘‘ Nor for me either,” said Sancho, for more than four hun- 
dred Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the 
stakes was cakes and fancy -bread to it. But tell me, senor, 
what did you call this excellent and rare adventure that has 
left us as we are left now ? Though your worship was not so 
badly off, having in your arms that incomparable beauty you 
spoke of ; but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks 
I think I had in all my life ? Unlucky me and the mother that 
bore me ! for I am not a knight-errant and never expect to 
be one, and of all the mishaps, the greater part falls to my 
share.” 

Then thou hast been thrashed too ? ” said Don Quixote. 

Did n’t I say so ? worse luck to my line ! ” said Sancho. 

Be not distressed, friend,” said Don Quixote, for I will 
now make the precious balsam with which we shall cure our- 
selves in the twinkling of an eye.” 

By this time the officer had succeeded in lighting the lamp, 
and came in to see the man that he thought had been killed ; 
and as Sancho caught sight of him at the door, seeing him 
coming in his shirt, with a cloth on his head, and a lamp in 
his hand, and a very forbidding countenance, he said to his 
master, ‘‘ Senor, can it be that this is the enchanted Moor com- 
ing back to give us more castigation if there be anything still 
left in the ink-bottle ? ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Ill 


It can not be the Moor,” answered Don Quixote, “ for those 
under enchantment do not let themselves be seen by any one.” 

‘‘ If they don’t let themselves be seen, they let themselves 
be felt,” said Sancho ; if not, let my shoulders speak to the 
point.” 

Mine could speak too,” said Don Quixote, but that is not 
a sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the en- 
chanted Moor.” 

The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a 
peaceful conversation, stood amazed ; though Don Quixote, to 
be sure, still lay on his back unable to move from pure pum- 
melling and plasters. The officer turned to him and said, 
^‘Well, how goes it, good man?” 

“ I would speak more politely if I were you,” replied Don 
Quixote ; is it the way of this country to address knights- 
errant in that style, you booby ? ” 

The officer finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such 
a sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the 
lamp full of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the 
head that he gave him a badly broken pate ; then, all being 
in darkness, he went out, and Sancho Panza said, That is 
certainly the enchanted Moor, senor, and he keeps the treasure 
for others, and for us only the cuffs and lamp-whacks.” 

That is the truth,” answered Don Quixote, and there is 
no use in troubling one’s self about these matters of enchant- 
ment or being angry or vexed at them, for, as they are in- 
visible and visionary we shall find no one on whom to avenge 
ourselves, do what we may ; rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and 
call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give me a 
little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous 
balsam, for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, be- 
cause I am losing much blood from the wound that phantom 
gave me.” 

Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went 
after the innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who 
was looking to see what had become of his enemy, he said 
to him, Senor, whoever you are, do us the favor and kind- 
ness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine, for it is 
wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on earth, who 
lies on yonder bed sorely wounded by the hands of the en- 
chanted Moor that is in this inn.” 

When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him 


112 


DON QUIXOTE. 


for a man out of his senses, and as day was now beginning 
to break, he opened the inn gate, and calling the host, he 
told him what this good man wanted. The host furnished 
him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don 
Quixote, who, with his hands to his head, was bewailing the 
pain of the blow of the lamp, which had done him no more 
harm than raising a couple of rather large lumps, and what 
he fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from him in 
his sufferings during the late storm. To be brief, he took the 
materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them all and 
boiling them a good while until it seemed to him they had 
come to perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, 
and as there was no tone in the inn, he decided on putting it 
into a tin oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free 
gift ; and over the flask he repeated more than eighty pater- 
nosters and as many more ave-marias, salves, and credos, ac- 
companying each word with a cross by way of benediction, 
at all Avhich there were present Sancho, the innkeeper, and 
the officer; for the carrier was now peacefully engaged in 
attending to the comfort of his mules. 

This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial him- 
self, on the spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he 
considered it, and so he drank near a quart of what could 
not be put into the flask and remained in the pipkin in which 
it had been boiled ; but scarcely had he done drinking when 
he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was left in his 
stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke 
into a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade them cover 
him up and leave him alone. They did so, and he lay sleep- 
ing more than three hours, at the end of which he awoke and 
felt very great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises 
that he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed he 
had hit upon the balsam of Fierabras ; and that with this 
remedy he might thenceforward, without any fear, face any 
kind of destruction, battle, or combat, however perilous it 
might be. 

Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his 
master as miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in 
the pipkin, which was no small quantity. Don Quixote con- 
sented, and he, taking it with two hands, in good faith and 
with a better will, gulped down and drained off very little less 
than his master. But the fact is, that the stomach of poor 


CHAPTER XVII. 


113 


Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his master, 
and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such gripings, and 
retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly 
he believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so 
racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that 
had given it to him. 

Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, ‘‘ It is my belief, 
Sancho, that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a 
knight, for I am persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those 
who are not so.” 

If your worship knew that,” returned Sancho, — woe 
betide me and all my kindred ! — why did you let me taste 
it?” 

At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire 
began to discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat 
on which he had thrown himself and the canvas blanket he 
had covering him were fit for nothing afterwards. He sweated 
and perspired with such paroxysms and convulsions that not 
only he himself but all present thought his end had come. 
This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the 
end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and 
exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, 
who, as has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager 
to take his departoe at once in quest of adventures, as it 
seemed to him thaw all the time he loitered there was a fraud 
upon the world and those in it who stood in need of his help 
and protection, all the more when he had the security and con- 
fidence his balsam afforded him ; and so, urged by this impulse, 
he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on his 
squire’s beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount 
the ass ; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a 
corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, 
to serve him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who 
were more than twenty persons, stood watching him ; the inn- 
keeper’s daughter was likewise observing him, and he too never 
took his eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a sigh 
that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels ; 
but they all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his 
ribs ; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the night 
before thought so. 

As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, 
he called to the host and said in a very grave and measured 

VoL. I. - 8 


114 


DON QUIXOTE, 


voice, Many and great are the favors, Senor Alcaide, that 1 
have received in this castle of yours, and I remain under the 
deepest obligation to be grateful to you for them all the days 
of my life ; if I can repay them in avenging you of any arro- 
gant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is 
no other than to aid the weak, and to avenge those who suffer 
wrong, and to chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and if 
you find anything of this kind you need only tell me of it, 
and I promise you by the order of knighthood which I have 
received to procure you satisfaction and reparation to the ut- 
most of your desire.” 

The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, Sir 
Knight, I do not want your worship to avenge me of any 
wrong, because when any is done me I can take what vengeance 
seems good to me ; the only thing I want is that you pay me the 
score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well for the 
straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and beds.” 

Then this is an inn ? ” said Don Quixote. 

And a very respectable one,” said the innkeeper. 

I have been under a mistake all this time,” answered Don 
Quixote, “ for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad 
one ; but since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all 
that can be done now is that you should excuse the payment, 
for I can not contravene the rule of knigl^^rrant, of whom I 
know as a fact (and up to the present I Imve read nothing to 
the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything else 
in the inn where they might be ; ^ for any hospitality that might 
be offered them is their due by law and right in return for the 
insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night 
and by day, summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, 
in hunger, and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclem- 
encies of heaven and all the hardships of earth.” 

I have little to do with that,” replied the innkeeper ; pay 
me what you owe me, and let us have no more talk or chivalry, 
for all I care about is to get to my money.” 

You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,” said Don Quixote, 
and putting spurs to Eocinante and bringing his pike to the 
slope he rode out of the inn before any one could stop him, and 
pushed on some distance without looking to see if his squire 
was following him. 

* Nevertheless Orlando in the Morgante Maggiore is called upon to leave 
his horse in pledge for his reckoning. Morg. Magg, c. xxi. st. 129. 


CHAPTER XV I L 


115 


The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran 
to get payment of Sancho, who said that as his master would 
not pay neither would he, because, being as he was squire to a 
knight-errant, the same rule and reason held good for him as 
for his master with regard to not paying anything in inns and 
hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very wroth, and 
threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he 
would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the 
law of chivalry his master had received he would not pay a 
rap,^ though it cost him his life ; for the excellent and ancient 
usage of knights-errant was not going to be violated by him, 
nor should the squires of such as were yet to come into the 
world ever complain of him or reproach him with breaking so 
just a law. 

The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that 
among the company in the inn there were four wool-carders 
from Segovia, three needle-makerg from the Colt of Cordova, 
and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville,^ lively fellows, ten- 
der-hearted, fond of a joke, and playful, who, almost as if 
instigated and moved by a common impulse, made up to 
Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them 
went in for the blanket of the host’s bed ; but on flinging him 
into it they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was some- 
what lower than what they required for their work, they 
decided upon going out into the yard, which was bounded 
by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the middle of the 
blanket, they began to make sport with him as they would 
with a dog at Shrovetide.* The cries of the poor blanketed 
wretch were so loud that they reached the ears of his master, 
who, halting to listen attentively, was persuaded that some 
new adventure was coming, until he clearly perceived that it 
was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he came 
up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went 
round it to see if he could find some way of getting in ; but as 
soon as he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very 
high, he discovered the game that was being played with his 

^ Cornado, a coin of infinitesimal value, about one-sixth of a maravedi. 

The " Fair ” was a low quarter in Seville. 

^ " The roorae was high-roofed and fitted for their purpose. . . . They 
began to blanket me and to toss me up in the air as they used to doe to 
dogges at Shrovetide.” — Aleman's Guzman de Alfarache^ Ft. I. Bk. III. 
c. i. (James Mabbe’s translation). As the First Part of Guzman wag 
published in 1599, it may have suggested the scene to Cervantes. 


116 


DON QUIXOTE. 


squire. He saw him rising and falling in the air with such 
grace and nimbleness that, had his rage allowed him, it is my 
belief he would have laughed. He tried to climb from his 
horse on to the top of the wall, but he was so bruised and 
battered that he could not even dismount ; and so from the 
back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and 
objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it 
would be impossible to write down accurately : they, however, 
did not stay their laughter or their work for this, nor did 
the flying Sancho cease his lamentations, mingled now with 
threats, now with entreaties, but all to little purpose, or none 
at all, until from pure weariness they left off. They then 
brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put 
his jacket round him ; and the compassionate Maritornes, see- 
ing him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of 
water, and that it might be all the cooler she fetched it from 
the well. Sancho took it, and as he was raising it to his 
mouth he was stopped by the cries of his master exclaiming, 
“ Sancho, my son, drink not water ; drink it not, my son, for it 
will kill thee ; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and he 
held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it 
thou wilt certainly be restored.’’ 

At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still 
louder voice said, Can it be your worship has forgotten that 
I am not a knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up 
what bowels I have left after last night ? Keep your liquor 
in the name of all the devils, and leave me to myself ! ” and at 
one and the same instant he left off talking and began drink- 
ing ; but as at the first sup he perceived it was water he did 
not care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch him 
some wine, which she did with right good will, and paid for it 
with her own money ; for indeed they say of her that, though 
she was in that line of life, there was some faint and distant 
resemblance to a Christian about her. When Sancho had done 
drinking he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn 
being thrown open he passed out very well pleased at having 
paid nothing and carried his point, though it had been at the 
expense of his usual sureties, his shoulders. It is true that 
the innkeeper detained his alforjas in payment of what was 
owing to him, but Sancho took his departure in such a flurry 
that he never missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as he saw 
him off, wanted to bar the gate close, but the blanketers would 





v^tiMAy 

(?)*{>«• 


HR SAW HIM RISING AND FALLING IN THE AIR WITH 
GRACE AND NIMBLENESS. 





4 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


117 


not agree to it, for they were fellows who would not have 
cared two farthings for Don Quixote, even had he been really 
one of the knights-errant of the Round Table. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

i'N WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD 
WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER 
ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING. 

Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could 
not urge on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he 
was in he said, I have now come to the conclusion, good 
Sancho, that this castle or inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, 
because those who have so atrociously diverted themselves 
with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings of an- 
other world ? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed 
that when I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts 
of thy sad tragedy, it was out of my power to mount upon it, 
nor could I even dismount from Rocinante, because they no 
doubt had me enchanted ; for I swear to thee by the faith of 
what I am that if I had been able to climb up or dismount, I 
would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart 
thieves would have remembered their freak forever, even 
though in so doing I knew that I contravened the laws of 
chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a 
knight to lay hands on him who is not one, save in case of 
urgent and great necessity in defence of his own life and 
person.” 

I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, 
whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not ; 
though for my part I am persuaded those who amused them- 
selves with me were not phantoms or enchanted men, as your 
worship says, but men of fiesh and bone like ourselves ; and 
they all had their names, for I heard them name them when 
they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and 
another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was 
called Juan Palomeque the Left-handed ; so that, senor, your 
not being able to leap over the wall of the yard or dismount 
from your horse came of something else besides enchantments ; 


118 


DON QUIXOTE. 


nnd what I make out clearly from all this is, that these advent* 
ures we go seeking will in the end lead us into such misad- 
ventures that we shall not know which is our right foot ; and 
that the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, 
would be for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, 
and attend to our business, and give over wandering from 
Zeca to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is.’’ ^ 

How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied 
Don Quixote ; hold thy peace and have patience ; the day 
will come when thou shalt see with thine own eyes what an 
honorable thing it is to wander in the pursuit of this calling ; 
nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there be in the world, 
or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and tri- 
umphing over one’s enemy ? None, beyond all doubt.” 

Very likely,” answered Sancho, though I do not know it ; 
all I know is that since we have been knights-errant, or since 
your worship has been one (for I have no right to reckon my- 
self one of so honorable a number), we have never won any 
battle except the one with the Biscayan, and even out of that 
your worship came with half an ear and half a helmet the 
less ; and from that till now it has been all cudgellings and 
more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanket- 
ing over and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on 
whom I can not avenge myself so as to know what the delight, 
as your worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like.” 

That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, 
Sancho,” replied Don Quixote ; but henceforward I will en- 
deavor to have at hand some sword made by such craft that 
no kind of enchantments can take effect upon him who carries 
it, and it is even possible that fortune may procure for me 
that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ^ The Knight 
of the Burning Sword,’ ^ which was one of the best swords 
that ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the 
said virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armor, how- 
ever strong and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.” 

Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “ that even if that hap- 
pened and your worship found some such sword, it would, like 

* Proverbial expression (47) — " Andar de Ceca en Meca y de zoca en 
colodra” — somewhat like our phrase, ” from post to pillar.” The Ceca 
(properly a mint or a shrine) was the name given to part of the Great 
Mosque of Cordova, once second to Mecca only as a resort of pilgrims. 
Zoca properly means a wooden shoe, but here a vessel hollowed out of 
wood. * Amadis of Greece, not Amadis of Gaul. 


CHAPTER XV III, 


il9 


the balsam, turn out serviceable and good for dubbed knights 
only, and as for the squires, they might sup sorrow/^ 

Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote : Heaven will 
deal better by thee/’ 

Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, 
when, on the road they were following, Don Quixote perceived 
approaching them a large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing 
which he turned to Sancho and said, This is the day, 0 
Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is reserving 
for me ; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any 
other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I 
shall do deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame 
for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises 
yonder ? Well, then, all that is churned up ^ by a vast army 
composed of various and countless nations that comes marching 
there.” 

According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, for 
on this opposite side also there rises iust such another cloud of 
dust.” 

Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and 
rejoicing exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies 
about to engage and encounter in the midst of that broad plain ; 
for at all times and seasons his fancy was full of the battles, 
enchantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves, and defiances that 
are recorded in the books of chivalry, and everything he said, 
thought, or did had reference to such things. Now the cloud 
of dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep 
coming along the same road in opposite directions, which, be- 
cause of the dust, did not become visible until they drew near, 
but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies 
that Sancho was led to believe it and say, Well, and what 
are we to do, senor ? ” 

What ? ” said Don Quixote ; give aid and assistance to 
the weak and those who need it ; and thou must know, Sancho, 
that this which comes opposite to us is conducted and led by 
the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the peat isle of 
Trapobana ; this other that marches behind me is that of his 
enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare 
Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.” “ 

’ The word in the original is cuajada — " curdled ” — which Clemencin 
objects to as obscure, and would replace by causada — " caused.” 

* Suero de Quinones, the hero of the Paso honroso at the bridge of 
Orbigo in 1434, used to fight against the Moors with his right arm bare. 


120 


DON QUIXOTE. 


But why are these two lords such enemies ? ’’ asked Sancho. 

They are at enmity/’ replied Don Quixote, because this 
A-lifanfaron is a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter 
of Pentapolin, who is a very beautiful and moreover gracious 
lady, and a Christian, and her father is unwilling to bestow 
her upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the religion 
of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his own.” 

By my beard,” said Sancho, but Pentapolin does quite 
right, and I will help him as much as I can.” 

In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote ; for to engage in battles of this sort it is not req- 
uisite to be a dubbed knight.” 

That I can well understand,” answered Sancho ; but 
where shall we put this ass where we may be sure to find him 
after the fray is over ? for I believe it has not been the cus- 
tom so far to go into battle on a beast of this kind.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote, and what you had best do 
with him is to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost 
or not, for the horses we shall have when we come out victors 
will be so many that even Eocinante will run a risk of being 
changed for another. But attend to me and observe, for I 
wish to give thee some account of the chief knights who ac- 
company these two armies ; and that thou mayest the better 
see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises 
yonder, whence both armies may be seen.” 

They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from 
which the two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might 
have been plainly seen if the clouds of dust they raised had not 
obscured them and blinded the sight ; nevertheless, seeing in 
his imagination what he did not see and what did not exist, he 
began thus in a loud voice : ‘‘ That knight whom thou seest 
yonder in yellow armor, who bears upon his shield a lion 
crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laur- 
calco, lord of the Silver Bridge ; that one in armor with flowers 
of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an 
azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quiro- 
cia ; that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever 
dauntless Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Ara- 
bias, who for armor wears that serpent skin, and has for 
shield a gate which, according to tradition, is one of those of 
the temple that Samson brought to the ground when by his 
death he revenged himself upon his enemies ; but turn thine 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


121 


eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the 
van of this other army the ever victorious and never van- 
quished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who 
comes in armor with arms quartered azure, vert, argent, and 
or, and bears on his shield a cat or on a field tawny with a 
motto which says Miau, which is the beginning of the name 
of his lady, who according to report is the peerless Miaulina, 
daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve ; the other, 
who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and 
bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any 
device, is a novice knight, a frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin 
by name, lord of the baronies of Utrique ; that other, who with 
iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble party -coloi'ed 
zebra, and for arms bears azure cups, is the mighty duke of 
Nervia, Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his 
shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says, 
^Rastrea mi suerte.^ ” ^ And so he went on naming a number 
of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination, 
and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colors, devices, and 
mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze ; 
and without a pause, he continued, People of divers nations 
compose this squadron in front ; here are those that drink of 
the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus, those that scour the 
woody Massilian plains, those that sift the pure fine gold of 
Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the 
crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various ways 
divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faith- 
less in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the 
Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs 
that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they 
are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of 
other nations whose features I recognize and descry, though 
I can not recall their names. In this other squadron there 
come those that drink of the crystal streams of the olive-bear- 
ing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances with the 
water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in 
the fertilizing flow of the divine Genii, those that roam the 

* Eastrear means properly to track by following the footprints, and 
hence to keep close to the ground ; the motto, therefore, is probably 
meant to have a double signification, either " in Fortune’s footsteps ” or 
" my fortune creeps on the ground,” in allusion to the asparagus, which is 
a low-growing plant. 


122 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Tartesian plains ^ abounding in pasture, those that take their 
pleasure in the elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans 
crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics 
of the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Fisuerga renowned 
for its gentle current, those that feed their herds along the 
spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its 
hidden course,^ those that tremble with the cold of the pine- 
clad Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine ; in 
a word, as many as all Europe includes and contains.’^ 

Good God ! what a number of countries and nations he 
named! giving to each its proper attributes with marvellous 
readiness ; brimful and saturated with what he had read in his 
lying books ! Sancho Panza hung upon his words without speak- 
ing, and from time to time turned to try if he could see the 
knights and giants his master was describing, and as he could 
not make out one of them he said to him, Sehor, devil take it 
if there ’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight or giant, in the 
whole thing ; maybe it ’s all enchantment, like the phantoms 
last night.’^ 

‘‘ How canst thou say that ! ’’ answered Don Quixote ; dost 
thou not hear the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the 
trumpets, the roll of the drums ? 

‘‘ I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,’^ 
said Sancho ; which was true, for by this time the two flocks 
had come close. 

The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, prevents 
thee from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of 
fear is to derange the senses and. make things appear different 
from what they are ; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one 
side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory 
to that side to which I shall give my aid ; ” and so saying he 
gave Pocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot 
down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, 
crying, “ Come back, Senor Don Quixote ; I vow to God they 
are sheep and ewes you are charging 1 Come back ! Unlucky 
the father that begot me ! what madness is this ! Look, there 
is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered 
or whole, nor cups azure or bedevilled. What are you about ? 
Sinner that I am before God ! ” But not for all these entrea- 

^ From Tartessus, a city of Betica, supposed to have been situated 
somewhere in the neighborhood of Tarifa. 

* In part of its course through La Mancha the Guadiana flows under* 
ground. 


CHAPTER XVI I L 


123 


ties did Don Quixote turn back ; on the contrary he went on 
shouting out, Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the 
banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Ann, 
follow me all ; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his re- 
venge over his enemy Alifanfaron of Trapobana.’’ 

So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, 
and began spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity 
as if he were transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shep- 
herds and drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to 
desist ; but seeing it was no use, they ungirt their slings and 
began to salute his ears with stones, as big as one’s fist. Don 
Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive right and 
left, kept saying, Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron ? Come 
before me ; I am a single knight who would fain prove thy 
prowess hand to hand, and make thee yield thy life a pen- 
alty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Gara- 
manta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck 
him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Peel- 
ing himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly 
wounded for certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out 
his flask, and putting it to his mouth began to pour the con- 
tents into his stomach ; but ere he had succeeded in swallow- 
ing what seemed to him enough, there came another almond 
which struck him on the hand and on the flask so fairly that 
it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four teeth and 
grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two 
Angers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and 
of the second, that the poor knight in spite of himself came 
down backwards off his horse. The shepherds came up, and 
felt sure they had killed him ; so in all haste they collected 
their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which there 
were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascer- 
tain anything further. 

All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy 
feats his master was performing, and tearing his beard and 
cursing the hour and the occasion when fortune had made him 
acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, brought to the ground, 
and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he came down 
the hill and ran to him and found him in very bad case, though 
not unconscious ; and said he, “ Did I not tell you to come back, 
Senor Don Quixote ; and that what you were going to attack 
were not armies but droves of sheep ? ” 


124 


DON QUIXOTE. 


‘‘ That ’s how that thief of a sage/ my enemy, can alter and 
falsify things,’’ answered Don Quixote ; thou must know, 
Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those of his sort to 
make us take what form they choose ; and this malignant 
being who persecutes me, envious of the glory he knew I was 
to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy 
into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of 
thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is 
true ; mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt 
see that when they have gone some little distance from this 
they will return to their original shape and, ceasing to be 
sheep, become men in all respects as I described them to thee 
at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy help and assist- 
ance ; come hither and see how many of my teeth and grind- 
ers are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my 
mouth.” 

Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his 
mouth ; now just at that moment the balsam had acted on the 
stomach of Don Quixote, so, at the very instant when Sancho 
came to examine his mouth, he discharged all its contents with 
more force than a musket, and full into the beard of the com- 
passionate squire. 

Holy Mary ! ” cried Sancho, “ what is this that has hap- 
pened me ? Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as he 
vomits blood from the mouth;” but considering the matter a 
little more closely he perceived by the color, taste, and smell, 
that it was not blood but the balsam from the flask which he 
had seen him drink ; and he was taken with such a loathing 
that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his 
very master, and both were left in a precious state. Sancho 
ran to his ass to get something wherewith to clean himself, 
and relieve his master, out of his alforjas ; but not finding 
them, he well-nigh took leave of his senses, and cursed him- 
self anew, and in his heart resolved to quit his master and 
return home, even though he forfeited the wages of his service 
and all hopes of the government of the promised island. 

Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his 
mouth to keep his teeth from falling out altogether, with the 
other he laid hold of the bridle of Eocinante, who had never 
stirred from his master’s side — so loyal and well-behaved was 
he — and betook himself to where the squire stood leaning over 
* See chapter vii. 


CHAPTER XVI I L 


125 


his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep dejection. 
Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to 
him, Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than 
another, unless he does more than another ; all these tempests 
that fall upon us are signs that fair weather is coming shortly, 
and that things will go well with us, for it is impossible for 
good or evil to last forever ; and hence it follows that the evil 
having lasted long, the good must be now nigh at hand ; so 
thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which happen 
to me, since thou hast no share in them.” 

How have I not ? ” replied Sancho ; was he whom they 
blanketed yesterday perchance any other than my father’s 
son ? and the alforjas that are missing to-day with all my 
treasures, did they belong to any other but myself ? ” 
^^What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don 
Quixote. 

Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho. 

In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don 
Quixote. 

It would be so,” answered Sancho, “ if there were none 
of the herbs your worship says you know in these meadows, 
those with which knights-errant as unlucky as your worship 
are wont to supply such-like shortcomings.” 

For all that,” answered Don Quixote, I would rather 
have just now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of 
pilchards’ heads, then all the herbs described by Dioscorides, 
even with Dr. Laguna’s notes.^ Nevertheless, Sancho the 
Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, for God, who 
provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially when 
we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not 
the midges of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tad- 
poles of the water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun 
to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the 
just and on the unjust.” 

Your worship would make a better preacher than knight- 
errant,” said Sancho. 

Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, 
Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; for there were knights-errant in 
former times as well qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse 
in the middle of a highway,' as if they had graduated in the 

* Dr. Andreas Laguna, who translated Dioscorides into Spanish with 
copious notes in 1570. 


126 


DON QUIXOTE. 


University of Paris ; whereby we may see that the lance has 
never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance/^ ^ 

Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho ; let us 
be off now and find some place of shelter for the night, and 
God grant it may be somewhere where there are no blankets, 
nor blanketcers, nor phantoms, nor enchanted Moors; for if 
there are, may the devil take the whole concern.” 

^^Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; ‘^and do 
thou lead on where thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging 
to thy choice ; but reach me here thy hand, and feel with thy 
finger, and find out how many of my teeth and grinders are 
missing from this right side of the upper jaw, for it is there I 
feel the pain.” 

Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, How 
many grinders used your worship have on this side ? ” 

“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all 
whole and quite sound.” 

“ Mind what you are saying, senor,” said Sancho. 

“ I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “ for never 
in my life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen 
out or been destroyed by any decay or rheum.” 

“Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship 
has no more than two grinders and a half, and in the upper 
neither a half nor any at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm 
of my hand.” 

“ Jjuckless that I am ! ” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad 
news his squire gave him ; “ I had rather they had despoiled 
me of an arm, so it were not the sword-arm ; for I tell thee, 
Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a mill- 
stone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a diamond ; 
but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to 
all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and 1 will follow 
thee at whatever pace thou wilt.” 

Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction 
in which he thought he might find refuge without quitting the 
high road, which was there very much frequented. As they 
went along, then, at a slow pace — for the pain in Don Quixote’s 
jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed — Sanchc 
thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of some kind, 
and among the things he said td him was that which will be 
told in the following chapter. 

»Prov. 125. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


127 


CHAPTER XIX. 

OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS 

MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A 

DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE OCCURRENCES. 

It seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have 
befallen us of late have been without any doubt a punishment 
for the offence committed by your worship against the order 
of chivalry in not keeping the oath you made not to eat bread 
off a table-cloth or embrace the queen, and all the rest of it 
that your worship swore to observe until you had taken that 
helmet of Malandrino’s, or whatever the Moor is called, for I 
do not very well rememlDer.” 

“ Thou art very right, Sancho,’' said Don Quixote, but to 
tell the truth, it had escaped my memory ; and likewise thou 
mayest rely upon it that the affair of the blanket happened 
to thee because of thy fault in not reminding me of it in time ; 
but I will make amends, for there are ways of compounding 
for everything in the order of chivalry.’’ 

Why ! have I taken an oath of some sort, then ? ” said 
Sancho. 

It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath,” 
said Don Quixote ; suffice it that I see thou are not quite clear 
of complicity ; and whether or no, it will not be ill done to pro- 
vide ourselves with a remedy.” 

In that case,” said Sancho, mind that your worship does 
not forget this as you did the oath ; perhaps the phantoms may 
take it into their heads to amuse themselves once more with 
me ; or even with your worship if they see you so obstinate.” 

While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them 
on the road before they had reached or discovered any place of 
shelter ; and what made it still worse was that they were dying 
of hunger, for with the loss of the alforjas they had lost their 
entire larder and commissariat ; and to complete the misfortune 
they met with an adventure which without any invention had 
really the appearance of one. It so happened that the night 
closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that they pushed on, 
Sancho feeling sure that as the road was the king’s highway ^ 

^ Camino real — one of the main roads connecting the provinces or chief 
cities with the capitah 


128 


DON QUIXOTE. 


they might reasonably expect to find some inn within a league 
or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night dark, the 
squire hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards 
them on the road they were travelling a great number of lights 
which looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken 
aback at the sight of them, nor did Don Quixote altogether 
relish them : the one pulled up his ass by the halter, the other 
his hack by the bridle, and they stood still, watching anxiously 
to see what all this would turn out to be, and found that the 
lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the 
greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake 
like a man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote’s hair stood 
on end ; he, however, plucking up spirit a little, said, This, 
no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous advent- 
ure, in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my 
valor and resolution.” 

Unlucky me ! ” answered Sancho ; if this adventure hap- 
pens to be one of phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, 
where shall I find the ribs to bear it ? ” 

Be they phantoms ever so much,” said Don Quixote, I 
will not permit them to touch a thread of thy garments ; for 
if they played tricks with thee the time before, it was because 
I was unable to leap the walls of the yard ; but now we are on 
a wide plain, where I shall be able to wield my sword as I 
please.” 

And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last 
time,” said Sancho, ^‘what difference will it make being on 
the open plain or not ? ” 

“ For all that,” replied Don Quixote, “ I entreat thee, Sancho, 
to keep a good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine 
is.” 

“ I will, please God,” answered Sancho, and the two retiring 
to one side of the road set themselves to observe closely what 
all these moving lights might be ; and very soon afterwards 
they made out some twenty encamisados,^ all on horseback, 
with lighted torches in their hands, the awe-inspiring 
aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of 
Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like one in the 

* Maskers wearing shirts (^camisas) over their clothes, who marched in 
procession carrying torches on festival nights. As there is no English 
translation of the word, it is better to give the Spanish instead of some 
roundabout descriptive phrase. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


129 


cold fit of an ague ; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered 
still more when they perceived distinctly that behind them 
there came a litter covered over with black and followed by 
six more mounted figures in mourning down to the very feet 
of their mules — for they could perceive plainly they were not 
horses by the easy pace at which they went. And as the en- 
camisados came along they muttered to themselves in a low 
plaintive tone. This strange spectacle at such an hour and in 
such a solitary place was quite enough to strike terror into 
Sancho’s heart, and even into his master’s ; and (save in Don 
Quixote’s case) did so, for all Sancho’s resolution had now broken 
down. It was just the opposite with his master, whose imag- 
ination immediately conjured up all this to him vividly as one 
of the adventures of his books. He took it into his head that 
the litter was a bier on which was borne some sorely wounded 
or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved for him 
alone ; and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in 
rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit 
and bearing took up his position in the middle of the road 
where the encamisados must of necessity pass ; and as soon as 
he saw them near at hand he raised his voice and said, Halt, 
knights, whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who 
ye are, whence ye come, what it is ye carry upon that bier, for, 
to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong or 
some wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and neces- 
sary that I should know, either that I may chastise you for the 
evil ye have done, or else that I may avenge you for the injury 
that has been inflicted upon you.” 

We are in haste,” answered one of the encamisados, “ and 
the inn is far off, and we can not stop to render you such an 
account as you demand ; ” and spurring his mule he moved on. 

Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and 
seizing the mule by the bridle he said, “ Halt, and be more 
mannerly, and render an account of what I have asked of you ; 
else, take my defiance to combat, all of you.” 

The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being 
seized that rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over 
her haunches. An attendant who was on foot, seeing the en- 
camisado fall began to abuse Don Quixote, who now moved to 
anger, without any more ado, laying his lance in rest charged 
one of the men in mourning and brought him badly wounded 
to the ground, and as ht wheeled round upon the others the 

VoL. I. — 9 


130 


DON QUIXOTE. 


agility with which he attacked and routed them was a sight to 
see, for it seemed just as if wings had that instant grown 
upon E-ocinante, so lightly and proudly did he bear himself. 
The encamisados were all timid folk and unarmed, so they 
speedily made their escape from the fray and set off at a run 
across the plain with their lighted torches, looking exactly like 
maskers running on some gala or festival night. The mourn- 
ers, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were 
unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself 
Don Quixote belabored them all and drove them off against their 
will, for they all thought it was no man but a devil from hell 
come to carry away the dead body they had in the litter. 

Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of 
his lord, and said to himself, Clearly this master of mine is 
as bold and valiant as he says he is.^’ 

A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom 
the mule had thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote per- 
ceived him, and coming up to him he presented the point of 
the lance to his face, calling on him to yield himself prisoner, 
or else he would kill him ; to which the prostrate man replied, 
‘‘ I am prisoner enough as it is ; I can not stir, for one of my 
legs is broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian gentle- 
man, not to kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege, 
for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders.’’ 

Then what the devil brought you here, being a church- 
man ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

What, senor ? ” said the other. My bad luck.” 

Then still worse awaits you,” said Don Quixote, if you 
don’t satisfy me as to all I asked you at first.” 

You shall be soon satisfied,” said the licentiate ; you must 
know, then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I 
am only a bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez ; I am a 
native of Alcobendas, I come from the city of Baeza with 
eleven others, priests, the same who fled with the torches, and 
we are going to the city of Segovia accompanying a dead body 
which is in that litter and is that of a gentleman who died in 
Baeza, where he was interred ; and now, as I said, we are tak 
ing his bones to their burial-place, which is in Segovia, where 
he was born.” 

And who killed him ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,” 
answered the bachelor. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


181 


In that case,” said Don Quixote, “ the Lord has relieved 
me of the task of avenging his death had any other slain him ; 
but, he who slew him having slain him, there is nothing for it 
but to be silent, and shrug one’s shoulders ; I should do the 
same were he to slay myself : and I would have your rever- 
ence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by 
name, and it is my business and calling to roam the world 
righting wrongs and redressing injuries.” 

“ I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,” 
said the bachelor, “ for from straight you have made me 
crooked,^ leaving me with a broken leg that will never see itself 
straight again all the days of its life ; and the injury you have 
redressed in my case has been to leave me injured in such a 
way that I shall remain injured forever ; and the height of 
misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in search of 
adventures.” 

Things do not always happen in the same way,” answered 
Don Quixote ; it all came. Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your 
going, as you did, by night, dressed in those surplices, with 
lighted torches, praying, covered with mourning, so that natu- 
rally you looked like something evil and of the other world ; and 
so I could not avoid doing my duty in attacking you, and I 
should have attacked you even had I known positively that you 
were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly believed and 
took you to be.” ^ 

As my fate has so willed it,” said the bachelor, “ I entreat 
you, sir knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one 
for me, to help me to get from under this mule that holds one 
of my legs caught between the stirrup and the saddle.” 

I would have talked on till to-morrow,” said Don Quixote ; 
how long were you going to wait before telling me of your 
distress ? ” 

He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to 
come, as he was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, 
well laden with provender, which these worthy gentlemen had 
brought with them. Sancho made a bag of his coat, and, get- 

* A quibble on the words derecho and iuerto^ which mean " straight ” and 
" crooked,” as Arell as " right ” and " wrong.” 

* The original has ” for such I always believed,” etc., which is an ob- 
vious slip, either of the pen or of the press. It can not be that Cervantes 
intended a side blow at ecclesiastics, for he expressly disclaims any such 
intention, and the "you” clearly refers to these particular processionists 
alone. 


18 ^ 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ting together as much as he could, and as the mule’s sack would 
hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey his master’s 
call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from under . the 
mule ; then putting him on her back he gave him the torch, 
and Don Quixote bade him follow the track of his companions, 
and beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong which he 
could not help doing them. 

And said Sancho, ‘‘If by chance these gentlemen should want 
to know who was the hero that served them so, your worship 
may tell them that he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
otherwise called the Knight of the Eueful Countenance.” ^ 

The bachelor then took his departure. I forgot to mention 
that before he did so he said to Don Quixote, “ Eem ember that 
you stand excommunicated for having laid violent hands on a 
holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente diaholo.^’ 

“ I do not understand that Latin,” answered Don Quixote, 
“ but I know well I did not lay hands, only on this pike ; besides, 
I did not think I was committing an assault upon priests or 
things of the Church, which, like a Catholic and faithful Chris- 
tian as I am, I respect and revere, but upon phantoms and 
spectres of the other world ; but even so, I remember how it 
fared with Cid Euy Diaz when he broke the chair of the ambas- 
sador of that king before his Holiness the Pope who excommu- 
nicated him for the same ; and yet the good Eoderick of Bivar 
bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight.” ^ 
On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has 
been said, without making any reply ; and Don Quixote asked 
Sancho what had induced him to call him the “ Knight of the 
Kueful Countenance” more than at any other time. 

“ I will tell you,” answered Sancho ; “ it was because I have 
been looking at you for some time by the light of the torch 

Mt has been frequently objected i\\2LX jigura does not mean the face or 
countenance, but the whole figure ; but no matter what dictionaries may 
say, it is plain from what follows that Sancho applies the word here to his 
master’s /ace, made haggard by short commons and loss of teeth, and uses 
it as synonymous with cara ; and that Don Quixote himself never could 
have contemplated painting a full-length on his shield, but merely a face. 
As a matter of fact, however, the dictionaries do not support the objec- 
tion. The two best, that of the Academy and of Vicente Salva, explain 
figura as the " external form of a body,” and add that it is commonly used 
for the face alone, por solo el rostro. 

^ Referring to the apochryphal legend which forms the subject of the 
ballad, "A concilio dentro en Roma'\ Among Lockhart’s ballads there is 
a lively version of it. ' 


CHAPTER XIX. 


133 


held by that unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of 
late the most ill-favored countenance I ever saw : it must be 
either owing to the fatigue of this combat, or else to the want 
of teeth and grinders/’ 

It is not that,” replied Don Quixote, but because the sage 
whose duty it will be to write the history of my achievements 
must have thought it proper that I should take some distinc- 
tive name as all knights of yore did ; one being ^ He of the 
Burning Sword,’ another ^ He of the Unicorn,’ this one ^ He of 
the Damsels,’ that ^ He of the Poenix,’ another < The Knight of 
the G-riffin,’ and another ^ He of the Death,’ and by these 
names and designations they were known all the world round ; 
and so I say that the sage aforesaid must have put. it into 
your mouth and mind just now to call me ^ The Knight of 
the Kueful Countenance,’ as I intend to call myself from this 
day forward; and that the said name may .fit. me better, I 
mean, when the opportunity ofiers, to have a very rueful 
countenance painted on my shield.” 

“ There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money on 
making that countenance,” said Sancho ; for all that need be 
done is for your worship to show your own, face to face, to 
those who look at you, and without anything more, either 
image or shield, they will call you ^ Him of the Bueful Counte- 
nance ; ’ and believe me I am telling you the truth, for I assure 
you, senor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the loss of 
your grinders have given you such an ill-favored face that, as 
I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared.” : 

i)on Quixote laughed at Sancho’s pleasantry ; nevertheless 
he resolved to call himself by that name, and have his shield 
or buckler painted as he had devised. 

Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in 
the litter were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, say- 
ing, Senor, you have ended this perilous . adventure more 
safely for yourself than any of those I have seen: perhaps 
these people, though beaten and routed, may bethink them- 
selves that it is a single man that has beaten them,- and feeling 
sore and ashamed of it may take heart and come in search of 
us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the 
mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing 
more to do but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is, 
let the dead go to the grave and the living to the loaf ; and 
» Prov. 147. 


134 


DON QUIXOTE. 


driving liis ass before him he begged his master to follow, who, 
feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying ; and 
after proceeding some little distance between two hills they 
found themselves in a wide and retired valley, where they 
alighted, and Sancho unloaded his beast, and stretched upon 
the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they breakfasted, dined, 
lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying their appetites with 
more than one store of cold meat which the dead man's clerical 
gentleman (who seldom put themselves on short allowance) 
had brought with them on their sumpter mule. But another 
piece of ill-luck befell them, which Sancho held the worst of 
all, and that was that they had no wine to drink, nor even 
water to moisten their lips ; and as thirst tormented them, 
Sancho, observing that the meadow where they were was 
full of green and tender grass, said what will be told in the 
following chapter. 


CHAPTER XX. 

OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH 
WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA 
MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY 
ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD. 

It can not be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that 
there must be hard by some spring or brook to give it moist- 
ure, so it would be well to move a little farther on, that 
we may find some place where we may quench this terrible 
thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is more distress- 
ing than hunger.’^ 

The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading 
Rocinante by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, 
after he had packed away upon him the remains of the supper, 
they advanced up the meadow feeling their way, for the dark- 
ness of the night made it impossible to see anything ; but they 
had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, 
as if falling from great high rocks, struck their ears. The 
sound cheered them greatly; but halting to make out by 
listening from what quarter it came they heard unseasonably 
another noise which spoiled ^ the satisfaction the sound of the 

’Literally, "watered the satisfaction.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


135 


water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by nature 
timid and faint-hearted; they heard, I say, strokes falling 
with a measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and chains 
that, together with the furious din of the water, would have 
struck terror into any heart but Don Quixote’s. The night 
was, as has been said, dark, and they had happened to reach 
a spot in among some tall trees, whose leaves stirred by a 
gentle breeze made a low ominous sound ; so that, what with 
the solitude, the place, the darkness, the noise of the water, 
and the rustling of the leaves, everything inspired awe and 
dread ; more especially as they perceived that the strokes did 
not cease, nor the wind lull, nor morning approach; to all 
which might be added their ignorance as to where they were. 

But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on 
Bocinante, and bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his 
pike to the slope, and said, Friend Sancho, know that I by 
Heaven’s will have been born in this our iron age to revive in 
it the age of gold, or the golden as it is called ; I am he for 
whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds are re- 
served ; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of 
the Bound Table, the Twelve of France and the Bine Worthies ; 
and he who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, 
the Olivantes and Tirantes, the Phoebuses and Belianises, with 
the whole herd of famous knights-errant of days gone by, per- 
forming in these in which I live such exploits, marvels, and 
feats of arms as shall obscure their brightest needs. Thou 
dost mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the gloom of this 
night, its strange silence, the dull confused murmur of these 
trees, the awful sound of that water in quest of which we 
came, that seems as though it were precipitating and dashing 
itself down from the lofty mountains of the moon, and that 
incessant hammering that wounds and pains our ears ; which 
things all together and each of itself are enough to instil fear, 
dread, and dismay into the breast of Mars himself, much more 
into one not used to hazards and adventures of the kind. 
Well, then, all this that I put before thee is but an incentive 
and stimulant to my spirit, making my heart burst in my 
bosom through eagerness to enga,ge in this adventure, arduous 
as it promises to be; therefore tighten Bocinante’s girths a 
little, and God be with thee ; wait for me here three days and 
no more, and if in that time I come not back, thou canst return 
to our village, and thence, to do me a favor and a service, thou 


136 


DON QUIXOTE. 


wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable 
lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in attempting 
things that might make him worthy of being called hers.” 

When Sancho heard his master’s words he began to weep in 
the most pathetic way, saying, Senor, I know not why your 
worship wants to attempt this so dreadful adventure; it is 
night now, no one sees us here, we can easily turn about and 
take ourselves out of danger, even if we don’t drink for three 
days to come ; and as there is no one to see us, all the less 
will there be any one to set us down as cowards ; besides, I 
have many a time heard the curate of our village, whom your 
worship knows well, preach that he who seeks danger perishes 
in it ; ^ so it is not right to tempt God by trying so tremen- 
dous a feat from which there can be no escape save by a 
miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for your 
worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was, and 
bringing you out victorious and safe and sound from among 
all those enemies that were with the dead man ; and if all 
this does not move or soften that hard heart, let this thought 
and reflection move it, that you will have hardly quitted this 
spot when from pure fear I shall yield my soul up to any one 
that will take it. I left home and wife and children to come 
and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not worse ; 
but, as covetousness bursts the bag,^ it has rent my hopes 
asunder, for just as I had them highest about getting that 
wretched unlucky island your worship has so often promised 
me, I see that instead and in lieu of it you mean to desert me 
now in a place so far from human reach ; for God’s sake, 
master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship 
will not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it 
off till morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a 
shepherd tells me it can not want three hours of dawn now, 
because the mouth of the Horn is overhead and makes mid- 
night in the line of the left arm.” ^ 

How canst thou see, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, where 
it makes that line, or where the mouth or head is that thou 
talkest of, when the night is so dark that there is not a star 
to be seen in the whole heaven ? ” 

^ Prov. 179. 2 Prov. 50. 

^ The Horn Sancho refers to is the constellation of Ursa Minor, which 
has someA\"hat the shape of a curved hunting horn, and the hour was calcu- 
lated by extending the arms horizontally so as to represent a cross, the 
time being indicated by the relative position of the Horn to the arms . 


CHAPTER XX. 


137 


That ’s true/’ said Sancho, but fear has sharp eyes, and 
sees things underground, much more above in the heavens ; 
besides, there is good reason to show that it now wants but 
little of day.” 

Let it want what it may,” replied Don Quixote, it shall 
not be said of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties 
turned me aside from doing what was in accordance with 
knightly usage ; and so I beg of thee, Sancho, to hold thy 
peace, for God, who has put it ixito my heart to undertake now 
this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care to 
watch over my safety and console thy sorrow ; what thou hast 
to do is to tighten Kocinante’s girths well, and wait here, for 
I shall come back shortly, alive or dead.” 

Sancho perceiving it his master’s final resolve, and how 
little his tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, 
determined to have recourse to his own ingenuity and compel 
him if he could to wait till daylight ; and so, while tightening 
the girths of the horse, he quietly and without being felt, tied 
both Docinante’s fore-legs, so that when Don Quixote strove to 
go he was unable as the horse could only move by jumps. 
Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza said, See there, 
sen or ! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so 
ordered it that Pocinante can not stir ; and if you will be 
obstinate, and spur and strike him, you will only provoke 
fortune, and kick, as they say, against the pricks.” 

Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove 
his heels into the horse, the less he stirred him ; and not hav- 
ing any suspicion of the tying, he was fain to resign himself 
and wait till daybreak or until Rocinante could move, firmly 
persuaded that all this came of something other than Sancho’s 
ingenuity. So he said to him, As it is so, Sancho, and as 
Rocinante can not move, I am content to wait till dawn smiles 
upon us, even though I weep while it delays its coming.” 

There is no need to weep,” answered Sancho, ‘^for I will 
amuse your worship by telling stories from this till daylight, 
unless, indeed, you like to dismount and lie down to sleep a 
little on the green grass after the fashion of knights-errant, so 
as to be fresher when day comes and the moment arrives for 
attempting this extraordinary adventure you are looking 
forward to.” 

What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for ? ” 
said Don Quixote. Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights 


138 


DON QUIXOTE. 


that take their rest in the presence of danger ? Sleep thou 
who art born to sleep, or do as thou wilt, for I will act as I 
think most consistent with my character.’’ 

Be not angry, master mine,” replied Sancho, I did not 
mean to say that ; ” and coming close to him he laid one hand 
on the pommel of the saddle and the other on the cantle, so 
that he held his master’s left thigh in hi^ embrace, not daring 
to separate a finger’s length from him ; so much afraid was he 
of the strokes which still resounded with a regular beat. Don 
Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him as he had 
proposed, to which Sancho replied that he would if his dread 
of what he heard would let him ; Still,” said he, I will 
strive to tell a story which, if I can manage to relate it, and 
it escapes me not, is the best of stories, and let your worship 
give me your attention, for here I begin; What was, was ; ^ 
and may the good that is to come be for all, and the evil for him 
who goes to look for it — your worship must know that the 
beginning the old folk used to put to their tales was not just 
as each one pleased ; it was a maxim of Cato Zonzofino ^ the 
Roman that says Hhe evil for him that goes to look for it,’ 
and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to finger, to show 
that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for 
evil in any quarter, and that we should go back by some other 
road, since nobody forces us to follow this in which so many 
terrors affright us.” 

Go on with thy story, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and 
leave the choice of our road to my care.” 

“ I say then,” continued Sancho, “ that in a village of Es- 
tremadura there was a goat-shepherd — that is to say, one who 
tended goats — which shepherd or goat-herd, as my story goes, 
was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a 
shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess called Torralva 
was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this rich grazier ” — 

“ If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote, ‘‘ repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not 
have done these two days ; go straight on with it, and tell it 
like a reasonable man, or else say nothing.” 

“ Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am 

* Prov. 96. 

® i.e. Caton Censorino — Cato the Censor; but Sancho’s impression 
was that the name was derived from zonzo., " stupid,” or zonzorrion., "a 
blockhead.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


139 


telling this,” answered Sancho, and I can not tell it in any 
other, nor is it right of your worship to ask me to make new 
customs.” 

Tell it as thou wilt,” replied Don Quixote ; and as fate will 
have it that I can not help listening to thee, go on.” 

“ And so, lord of my soul,” continued Sancho, as I have 
said, this shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, 
who was a wild buxom lass with something of the look of a 
man about her, for she had little mustaches ; I fancy I see her 
now.” 

Then you knew her ? ” said Don Quixote. 

I did not know her, ” said Sancho, but he who told me 
the story said it was so true and certain that when I told it to 
another I might safely declare and swear I had seen it all my- 
self. And so in course of time, the devil, who never sleeps 
and puts everything in confusion, contrived that the love the 
shepherd bore the shepherdess turned into hatred and ill-will, 
and the reason, according to evil tongues, was some little 
jealousy she had caused him that crossed the line and tres- 
passed on forbidden ground ; ^ and so much did the shepherd hate 
her from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, 
he determined to quit the country and go where he should 
never set eyes on her again. Torralva, when she found her- 
self spurned by Lope, was immediately smitten with love for 
him, though she had never loved him before.” 

That is the natural way of women,” said Don Quixote, 
to scorn the one that loves them, and love the one that hates 
them : go on, Sancho.” 

It came to pass,” said Sancho, that the shepherd carried 
out his intention, and driving his goats before him took his 
way across the plains of Estremadura to pass over into the 
Kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, who knew of it, went after 
him, and on foot and barefooted followed him at a distance, 
with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand and a scrip round her neck, 
in which she carried, it is said, a bit of looking-glass, and a 
piece of a comb and some little pot or other of paint for her 
face ; but let her carry what she did, I am not going to trouble 
myself to prove it ; all I say is, that the shepherd, they say, 
came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which 
was at that time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, 
and at the spot he came to there was neither ferry nor boat nor 
» Prov. 198. 


140 


DON QUIXOTE. 


any one to carry him or his flock to the other side, at which 
he was much vexed, for he perceived that Torralva was ap- 
proaching and would give him great annoyance with her tears 
and entreaties ; however, he went looking about so closely that 
he discovered a flsherman who had alongside of him a boat so 
small that it could only hold one person and one goat ; but for 
all that he spoke to him and agreed with him to carry himself 
and his three hundred goats across. The flsherman got into the 
boat and carried one goat over; he came, back and carried 
another over ; he came back again, and again brought over 
another — let your worship keep count of the goats the fisher- 
man is taking across, for if one escapes the memory there will 
be an end of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another 
word of it. To proceed, I must tell you the landing place on 
the other side was miry and slippery, and the fisherman lost a 
great deal of time in going and coming ; still he returned for 
another goat, and another, and another.” 

Take it for granted he brought them all across,” said Don 
Quixote, “ and don’t keep going and coming in this way, or 
thou wilt not make an end of bringing them over this twelve- 
month.” 

How many have gone across so far ? ” said Sancho. 

How the devil do I know ? ” replied Don Quixote. 

There it is,” said Sancho, what I told you, that you must 
keep a good count ; well then, by God, there is an end of the 
story, for there is no going any farther.” 

How can that be ? ” said Don Quixote ; “ is it so essential 
to the story to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed 
over, that if there be a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou 
canst not go on with it ? ” 

‘^No, senor, not a bit,” replied Sancho; “for when I asked 
your worship to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you 
answered you did not know, at that very instant all I had to 
say passed away out of my memory, and faith, there was much 
virtue in it, and entertainment.” 

“ So, then,” said Don Quixote, “ the story has come to an 
end ? ” 

“ As much as my mother has,” said Sancho. 

“ In truth,” said Don Quixote, “ thou hast told one of the 
rarest stories, tales, or histories, that any one in the world 
could have imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending 
it was never seen nor will be in 9. lifetime ; though I expected 


CHAPTER XX, 


141 


nothing else from thy excellent understanding. But I do not 
wonder, for perhaps those ceaseless strokes may have confused 
thy wits.’^ 

All that may be/’ replied Sancho, but I know that as to 
my story, all that can be said is that it ends there where the 
mistake in the count of the passage of the goats ^ begins.” 

Let it end where it will, well and good,” said Don Quixote, 

and let us see if Bocinante can go ; ” and again he spurred 
him, and again Bocinante made jumps and remained where he 
was, so well tied was he. 

J ust then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was 
now approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at 
supper, or that it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho 
felt a desire to do what no one could do for him ; but so great 
was the fear that had penetrated his heart, he dared not sep- 
arate himself from his master by so much as the black of his 
nail ; to escape doing what he wanted was, however, also im- 
possible ; so what he did for peace’ sake was to remove his 
right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and with it to 
untie gently and silently the running string which alone held 
up his breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down 
round his feet like fetters ; he then raised his shirt as well as 
he could and bared his hind quarters, no slim ones. But this 
accomplished, which he fancied was all he had to do to get out 
of this terrible strait and embarrassment, another still greater 
difficulty presented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to 
relieve himself without making some noise, and he ground his 
teeth and squeezed his shoulders together, holding his breath 
as much as he could ; but in spite of his precautions he was 
unlucky enough after all to make a little noise, very different 
from that which was causing him so much fear. 

Don Quixote, hearing it, sajjd, What noise is that, Sancho ? ” 

I don’t know, senor,” said he ; ‘‘ it must be something new, 
for adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle.” 
Once more he tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that with- 
out any further noise or disturbance he found himself relieved 
of the burden that had given him so much discomfort. But 
as Don Quixote’s sense of smell was as acute as his hearing, 

^ The story of the passage of the goats is a very old one. It is the 30th 
of the Cento Novelle Antiche, into which it was imported, no doubt, from 
the Latin of the Aragonese Jew, Pedro Alfonso. There is a Proven 9 aI 
tale to the same effect ; but the original was probably Oriental. 


142 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that the fumes 
rose almost in a straight line, it could not be but that some 
should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he came to its 
relief by compressing it between his lingers, saying in a rather 
snuffling tone, Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear/’ 

“ I am,” answered Sancho ; but how does your worship 
perceive it now more than ever ? ” 

“ Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not 
of ambergris,” answered Don Quixote. 

“Very likely,” said Sancho, “but that’s not my fault, but 
your worship’s, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and 
at such unwonted paces.” 

“ Then go back three or four, my friend,” said Don Quixote, 
all the time with his lingers to his nose ; “ and for the future 
pay more attention to thy person and to what thou owest to 
mine ; for it is my great familiarity with thee that has bred 
this contempt.” 

“ I ’ll bet,” replied Sancho, “ that your worship thinks I have 
done something I ought not with my person.” 

“ It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,” returned Don 
Quixote. 

With this and other talk of the same sort master and man 
passed the night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was 
coming on apace, very cautiously untied Kocinante and tied up 
his breeches. As soon as Bocinante found himself free, though 
by nature he was not at all mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively 
and began pawing — for as to capering, begging his pardon, he 
knew not what it meant. Don Quixote, then, observing that 
Bocinante could move, took it as a good sign and a signal that 
he should attempt the dread adventure. By this time day 
had fully broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don 
Quixote saw that he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, 
which cast a very deep shade ; he perceived likewise that the 
sound of the strokes did not cease, but could not discover what 
caused it, and so without any further delay he let Bocinante 
feel the spur, and once more taking leave of Sancho, he told 
him to wait for him there three days at most, as he had said 
before, and if he should not have returned by that time, he 
might feel sure it had been God’s will that he should end his 
days in that perilous adventure. He again repeated the mes- 
sage and commission with which he was to go on his behalf to 
his lady Dulcinea, and said he was not to be uneasy as to the 


CHAPTER XX. 


143 


payment of his services, for before leaving home he had made 
his will, in which he would find himself fully recompensed in 
the matter of wages in due proportion to the time he had 
served ; but if God delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out 
of that danger, he might look upon the promised island as 
much more than certain. Sancho began weeping afresh on 
again hearing the affecting words of his good master, and re- 
solved to stay with him until the final issue and end of the 
business. From these tears and this honorable resolve of 
Sancho Panza^s the author of this history infers that he must 
have been of good birth and at least an old Christian ; ^ and 
the feeling he displayed touched his master somewhat, but not 
so much as to make him show any weakness ; on the contrary, 
hiding what he felt as well as he could, he began to move 
towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and of the 
strokes seemed to come. 

Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his 
custom was, his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or 
adversity ; and advancing some distance through the shady 
chestnut trees they came upon a little meadow at the foot of 
some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of water flung it- 
self. At the foot of the rocks were some rudely constructed 
houses looking more like ruins than houses, from among which 
came, they perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still 
continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at the 
noise of the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don 
Quixote advanced step by step towards the houses, commend- 
ing himself with all his heart to his lady, imploring her sup- 
port in that dread pass and enterprise, and on the way 
commending himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho, 
who never quitted his side, stretched his neck as far as he 
could and peered between the legs of Rocinante to see if he 
could now discover what it was that caused him such fear and 
apprehension. They went it might be a hundred paces farther, 
when on turning a corner the true cause, beyond the possibility 
of any mistake, of that dread-sounding and to them awe-in- 
spiring noise that had kept them all the night in such fear and 
perplexity, appeared plain and obvious ; and it was (if, reader, 
thou art not disgusted and disappointed) six fulling hammers 
which by their alternate strokes made all the din. 

’ An old Christian ” was one who had no trace of Moorish blood in his 
veins. The remark is somewhat inconsistent in the mouth of Cid Hamet 
Benengeli. 


144 


DON QUIXOTE. 


When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck 
dumb and rigid from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him 
and saw him with his head bent down upon his breast in mani- 
fest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced at Sancho and 
saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of 
laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite 
of his vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him ; 
and when Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily 
that he had to hold his sides with both hands to keep himself 
from bursting with laughter. Four times he stopped, and as 
many times did his laughter break out afresh with the same 
violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew furious, above 
all when he heard him say mockingly, Thou must know, 
friend Sancho, that of Heaven’s will I was born in this our 
iron age to revive in it the golden or age of gold ; I am he for 
whom are reserved perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds ; ” 
and here he went on repeating all or most of the words that 
Don. Quixote uttered the first time they heard the awful 
strokes. 

Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into 
ridicule, was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike 
and smote him two such blows that if, instead of catching 
them on his shoulders, he had caught them on his head, there 
would have been no wages to pay, unless indeed to his heirs. 
Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward return in earnest 
for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it still further, 
said to him very humbly, Calm yourself, sir. for by God I am 
only joking.” 

^‘Well, then, if you are joking I am not,” replied Don 
Quixote. “ Look here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead 
of being fulling hammers, had been some perilous adventure, 
have I not, think you, shown the courage required for the at- 
tempt and achievement ? Am I, perchance, being, as I am, a 
gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and tell 
whether they come from fulling mills or not ; and that, when 
perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen any as 
you have, low boor as you are, that have been born and bred 
among them ? But turn me these six hammers into six giants, 
and bring them to beard me, one by one or all together, and if 
I do not knock them head over heels, then make what mockery 
you like of me.” 

<^No more of that, senor,” returned Sancho ; own I went 


I 


CHAPTER XX. 145 

a little too far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now 
that peace is made between us (and may God bring you out of 
all the adventures that may befall you as safe and sound as he 
has brought you out of this one), was it not a thing to laugh at, 
and is it not a good story, the great fear we were in? — at least 
that I was in ; for as to your worship I see now that you neither 
know nor understand what either fear or dismay is.’’ 

I do not deny,” said Don Quixote, that what happened to 
us may be worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story 
about, for it is not every one that is shrewd enough to hit the 
right point of a thing.” 

At any rate,” said Sancho, your worship knew how to hit 
the right point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting 
me on the shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness 
in dodging it. But let that pass ; all will come out. in the 
scouring ; ^ for I have heard say ^ he loves thee well that makes 
thee weep ; ’ ^ and moreover that it is the way with great lords 
after any hard words they give a servant to give him a pair of 
breeches ; though I do not know what they give after blows, 
unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands,, or 
kingdoms on the mainland.” 

It may be on the dice,” said Don Quixote, that all thou 
sayest will come true ; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd 
enough to know that our first movements are not in our own 
control ; and one thing for the future bear in mind, that thou 
curb and restrain thy loquacity in my company ; for in all the 
books of chivalry that I have read, and they are innumerable, 
I never met with a squire who talked so much to his lord as 
thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel it to be a great fault of 
thine and of mine : of thine, that thou hast so little respect for 
me ; of mine, that I do not make myself more respected. There 
was Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of 
the Insula Firme,® and we read of him that he always addressed 
his lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and 
his body bent double, more turquesco. And then, what shall 
we say of Gasabal, the squire of Galaor, who was so silent that 
in order to indicate to us the greatness of his marvellous taci- 
turnity his name is only once mentioned in the whole of that 
history, as long as it is truthful ? ^ From all I have said thou 

> Prov. ,53. ^ Prov. 130. 

^ The " Insula Firme was apparently part of Brittany. 

^ The Rev. John Bowie, the learned editor and annotator of Don Qui- 
xote, was painstaking enough to verify this statement. It shows how 
closely Cervantes must have at one time read the Amadis^ 

VOL. I. -10 


146 


DON QUIXOTE. 


wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be a difference between 
master and man, between lord and lackey, between knight and 
squire : so that from this day forward in our intercourse we 
must observe more respect and take less liberties, for in what- 
ever way I may be provoked with you it will be bad for the 
pitcher.^ The favors and benefits that I have promised you 
will come in due time, and if they do not your wages at least 
will not be lost, as I have already told you.” 

‘‘ All that your worship says is very well,” said Sancho, 
but I should like to know (in case the time of favors should 
not come, and it might be necessary to fall back upon wages) how 
much did the squire of a knight-errant get in those days, and 
did they agree by the month, or by the day like bricklayers ? ” 

I do not believe,” replied Don Quixote, that such squires 
were ever on wages, but were dependent on favor ; and if I 
have now mentioned thine in the sealed will I have left at 
home, it was with a view to what may happen ; for as yet I 
know not how chivalry will turn out in these wretched times 
of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for trifles in the 
other world ; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in this 
there is no condition more hazardous than that of adventures.” 

That is true,” said Sancho, since the mere noise of the 
hammers of a fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of 
such a valiant errant adventurer as your worship ; but you may 
be sure I will not open my lips henceforward to make light of 
anything of your worship’s, but only to honor you as my 
master and natural lord.” 

By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, “ shalt thou live long on 
the face of the earth ; for next to parents, masters are to be 
respected as though they were parents.” 

^ Prov. 34. In full it is, " Whether the pitcher hits the stone, or th« 
stone the pitcher, it ’s bad for the pitcher.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


147 


CHAPTER XXI. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE 
OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS 
THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT. 

It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going 
into the fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such a 
disgust to them on account of the late joke that he would 
not enter them on any account ; so turning aside to the right 
they came upon another road, different from that which they 
had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don Quixote 
perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head something 
that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to 
Sancho and said, “ I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is 
not true, all being maxims drawn from experience itself, the 
mother of all the sciences, especially that one that says, 
^ Where one door shuts, another opens.’ ^ I say so because if 
last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we were looking 
for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now opens 
wide another one for another better and more certain adventure, 
and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, 
and I cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the 
darkness of the night. I say this because, if I mistake not, 
there comes toward us one who wears on his head the helmet 
of Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou remem- 
berest.” 

Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you 
do,” said Sancho, “ for I don’t want any more fulling mills to 
finish off fulling and knocking our senses out.” 

The devil take thee, man,” said Don Quixote ; what has 
a helmet to do with fulling mills ? ” 

“I don’t know,” replied Sancho, ^^but, faith, if I might 
speak as I used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your 
worship would see you were mistaken in what you say.” 

“ How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor ? ” 
returned Don Quixote ; tell me, seest thou not yonder knight 
coming towards us on a dappled gray steed, who has upon his 
head a helmet of gold ? ” 

What I see and make out,” answered Sancho, is only a 
* Prov. 194. 


148 


DON QUIXOTE. 


man on a gray ass like my own, who has something that shines 
on his head.” 

“ Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,” said Don Quixote ; 
stand to one side and leave me alone with him ; thou shalt 
see how, without saying a word, to save time, I shall bring this 
adventure to an issue and possess myself of the helmet I have 
so longed for.” 

I will take care to stand aside,” said Sancho ; but God 
grant, I say once more, that it may be marjoram and not full- 
ing mills.” ^ 

“ I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those 
fulling mills to me again,” said Don Quixote, or I vow — and 
I say no more — I ’ll full the soul out of you.” 

Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry 
out the vow he had hurled like a bowl at him. 

The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and 
knight that Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighborhood 
there were two villages, one of them so small that it had neither 
apothecary’s shop, nor barber, which the other that was close 
to it had, so the barber of the larger served the smaller, and in 
it there was a sick man who required to be bled and another 
man who wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the barber 
was going, carrying with him a brass basin ; but as luck would 
have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not to spoil 
his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his 
head, and being clean it glittered at half a league’s distance. 
He rode upon a gray ass, as Sancho said, and this was what 
made it seem to Don Quixote to be a dapple-gray steed and a 
knight and a golden helmet; for everything he saw he made 
to fall in with his crazy chivalry and ill errant ^ notions ; and 
when he saw the poor knight draw near, without entering 
into any parley with him, at Kocinante’s top speed he. bore 
down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to 
run him through and through, and as he reached him, without 
checking the fury of his charge, he cried to him, Defend thy- 
self, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that 
which is so reasonably my due.” 

^ ProT. 160. In full, " Plegue a Dios que oregano sea, y no se nos 
vuelva alcaravea.” — " Pray God it may prove wild marjoram, and not 
turn out caraway on us.” Shelton and Jervas not knowing the prover.b 
have mistranslated the passage ; the latter shirks the difficulty, and the 
former translates oregano " a purchase of gold.” 

2 Mal-andante., meaning also " unlucky.!’ 


CHAPTER XXL 


149 


The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of 
it saw this apparition coming down upon him, had no other 
way of saving himself from the stroke of the lance but to let 
himself fall off his ass ; and no sooner had he touched the 
ground than he sprang up more nimbly than a deer and sped 
away across the plain faster than the wind. 

He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote 
contented himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discre- 
tion and imitated the beaver, which finding itself pressed by 
the hunters bites and cuts off with its teeth that for which, by 
its natural instinct, it knows it is pursued. 

He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in 
his hands said, By God the basin is a good one, and worth a 
real of eight ^ if it is worth a maravedf,” and handed it to his 
master, who immediately put it on his head, turning it round, 
now this way, now that, in search of the visor, and not finding 
it he said, “ Clearly the pagan to whose measure this famous 
head-piece was first forged must have had a very large head ; 
but the worst of it is half of it is wanting.” 

When Sancho heard him call the basin a head-piece he was 
unable to restrain his laughter, but remembering his master’s 
wrath he checked himself in the midst of it. 

What art thou laughing at, Sancho ? ” said Don Quixote. 

I am laughing,” said he, ^‘to think of the great head the 
pagan must have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly 
like a regular barber’s basin.” 

Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho ? ” said Don Qui- 
xote ; that this wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must 
by some strange accident have come into the hands of some one 
who was unable to recognize or realize its value, and who, not 
knowing what he did, and seeing it to be of the purest gold, 
must have melted down one half for the sake of what it might 
be worth, and of the other made this which is like a barber’s 
basin as thou sayest ; but be it as it may, to me who recognize 
it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to 
rights at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in 
such style that that helmet the god of smithies forged for the 
god of battles shall not surpass it or even come up to it ; 
and in the meantime I will wear it as well as I can, for some- 
thing is better than nothing ; ^ all the more as it will be quite 
enough to protect me from any chance blow of a stone.” 

* The eight-real piece = about Is. M. ’ Prov. 10, 


150 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That is/’ said Sancho, if it is not shot with a sling as 
they were in the battle of the two armies, when they signed 
the cross on your worship’s grinders and smashed the flask 
with that blessed draught that made me vomit my bowels up.” 

It does not grieve me much to have lost it,” said Don 
Quixote, for thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in 
my memory.” 

So have I,” answered Sancho, but if ever I make it, or 
try it again ‘as long as I live, may this be my last hour ; more- 
over, I have no intention of putting myself in the way of 
wanting it, for I mean, with all my five senses, to keep myself 
from being wounded or from wounding any one : as to being 
blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to prevent mis- 
haps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it but 
to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our 
eyes, and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may 
send us.” 

Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote on 
hearing this, for once an injury has been done thee thou 
never forgettest it : but know that it is the part of noble and 
generous hearts not to attach importance to trifles. What 
lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken rib, what cracked 
head, that thou canst not forget that jest ? For jest and sport 
it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen it in that light I 
would have returned and done more mischief in revenging thee 
than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if she were 
alive now, or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend 
upon it she would not be so famous for her beauty as she is ; ” 
and here he heaved a sigh and sent it aloft ; and said Sancho, 
Let it pass for a jest as it can not be revenged in earnest, but 
I know what sort of jest and earnest it was, and I know it will 
never be rubbed out of my memory any more than off my 
shoulders. But putting that aside, will your worship tell me 
what are we to do with this dapple-gray steed that looks like 
a gray ass, which that Martino ^ that your worship overthrew 
has left deserted here ? for, from the way he took to his heels 
and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for it ; and by 
my beard but the gray is a good one.” 

I have never been in the habit,” said Don Quixote, of 
taking spoil of those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice 
of chivalry to take away their horses and leave them to go on 
^ A blunder of Sancho’s fbr Mambrino. 


CHAPTER XXL 


151 


foot, unless indeed it be that the victor have lost his own in 
the combat, in which case it is lawful to take that of the van- 
quished as a thing won in lawful war ; therefore, Sancho, leave 
this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be ; for 
when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it/’ 

“ God knows I should like to take it,” returned Sancho, “ or 
at least to change it for my own, which does not seem to me 
as good a one ; verily the laws of chivalry are strict, since they 
can not be stretched to let one ass be changed for another ; I 
should like to know if I might at least change trappings.” 

“ On that head I am not quite certain,” answered Don 
Quixote, and the matter being doubtful, pending better infor. 
mation, I say thou mayest change them, if so be thou hast 
urgent need of them.” 

So urgent is it,” answered Sancho, “ that if they were for 
my own person I could not want them more ; ” and forthwith, 
fortified by this license, he effected the mutatio capparum,'^ 
and rigged out his beast to the ninety-nines, making quite 
another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on the re- 
mains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, 
and drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, with- 
out casting a look in that direction, in such loathing did they 
hold them for the alarm they had caused them ; and, all anger 
and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any 
fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true 
knights-errant), they set out, guided by Eocinante’s will, which 
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the 
ass, which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and 
sociably ; nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pur- 
sued it at a venture without any other aim. 

As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his 
master, “ Senor, would your worship give me leave to speak a 
little to you ? For since you laid that hard injunction of 
silence on me several things have gone to rot in my stomach, 
and I have now just one on the tip of my tongue that I don’t 
want to be spoiled.” 

Say on, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and be brief in thy 
discourse, for there is no pleasure in one that is long.” 

^ The mutatio capparum was the change of hoods authorized by the 
Roman ceremonial, when the cardinals exchanged the fur-lined hoods worn 
in winter for lighter ones of silk. There is a certain audacity of humoi 
in the application of the phrase here. 


152 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Well, then, senor,” returned Sancho, I say that for some 
days past I have been considering how little is got or gained 
by going in search of these adventures that your worship seeks 
in these wilds and cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous 
are victoriously achieved, there is no one to see or know of 
them, and so they must be left untold forever, to the loss of 
your worship’s object and the credit they deserve ; therefore it 
seems to me it would be better (saving your worship’s better 
judgment) if we were to go and serve some emperor or other 
great prince who may have some war on hand, in whose service 
your worship may prove the worth of your person, your great 
might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord 
in whose service we may be will perforce have to reward us, 
each according to his merits ; and there you will not be at a 
loss for some one to set down your achievements in writing so 
as to preserve their memory forever. Of my own I say noth- 
ing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits, though I make 
bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to write the 
achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out.” 

Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, 
but before that point is reached it is requisite to roam the 
world, as it were on probation, seeking adventures, in order 
that, by achieving some, name and fame may be acquired, such 
that when he betakes himself to the court of some great mon- 
arch the knight may be already 'known by his deeds, and that 
the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of the city, 
may all follow him and surround him, crying, ‘ This is the 
Knight of the Sun ’ — or the Serpent, or any other title under 
which he may have achieved great deeds. ^ This,’ they will 
say, ^ is he who vanquished in single combat the gigantic Bro- 
cabruno of mighty strength ; he who delivered the great Mame- 
luke of Persia out of the long enchantment under which he had 
been for almost nine hundred years.’ ^ So from one to another 
they will go proclaiming his achievements ; and presently at the 
tumult of the boys and the others the king of that kingdom 
will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as soon as 
he beholds the knight, recognizing him by his arms and the 
device on his shield, he will as a matter of course say, < What 
ho ! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to receive the flower 
of chivalry who cometh hither ! ’ At which command all will 

* Cervantes gives here an admirable epitome, and without any extrava- 
gant cari<!ature, of a typical romance of chivalry. For every incident 
there is ample authority in the romances. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


153 


issue forth, and he himself, advancing half-way down the 
stairs, will embrace him closely, and salute him, kissing him 
on the cheek, and will then lead him to the queen’s chamber, 
where the knight will find her with the princess her daughter, 
who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished 
damsels that could with the utmost pains be discovered any- 
where in the known world. Straightway it will come to pass 
that she will fix her eyes upon the knight and he his upon her, 
and each will seem to the other something more divine than 
human, and, without knowing how or why, they will be taken 
and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and sorely dis- 
tressed in their hearts not to see any way of making their 
pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence they will lead 
him, no doubt, to some richly adorned chamber of the palace, 
where, having removed his armor, they will bring him a rich 
mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himSelf, and if he looked 
noble in his armor he will look still more so in a doublet. 
When night comes he will sup -with the king, queen, and 
princess ; and all the time he -will never take his eyes off her, 
stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by those present, and she 
will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being, as I have 
said, a damsel of great discretion. The tables being removed, 
suddenly through the door of the hall there will enter a hide- 
ous and diminutive dwarf followed by a fair dame, between 
two giants, who comes with a certain adventure, the work of 
an ancient sage ; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed 
the best knight in the world. ^ The king will then command 
all those present to essay it, and none will bring it to an end 
and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great enhance- 
ment of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed and 
will esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and 
placed her thoughts so high. And the best of it is that this 
king, or prince, or whatever he is, is engaged in a very bitter 
war with another as powerful as himself, and the stranger 
knight, after having been some days at his court, requests 
leave from him to go and serve him in the said war. The king 
will grant it very readily, and the knight will courteously kiss 
his hands for the favor done to him ; and that night he will 

^ Hartzenbusch, considering " adventure ” unintelligible, would substi- 
tute ” enigma” or "prophecy” for it; and "explain” for "achieve; ” but 
absolute consistency in a burlesque passage like this is scarcely worth 
insisting upon. 


154 


DON QUIXOTE. 


take leave of his lady the princess at the grating of the cham- 
ber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at which 
he has already many times conversed with her, the go-between 
and confidante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by 
the princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will 
fetch water, he will be distressed because morning approaches, 
and for the honor of his lady he would not that they were dis- 
covered ; at last the princess will come to herself and will present 
her white hands through the grating to the knight, who will 
kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing them with 
his tears. It will be arranged between them how they are to 
inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the 
princess will entreat him to make his absence as short as possi- 
ble, which he will promise to do with many oaths ; once more 
he kisses her hands, and takes his leave in such grief that he 
is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes him thence to his 
chamber, flings himself on his bed, can not sleep for sorrow at 
parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the 
king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the 
pair, it is told him that the princess is indisposed and can not 
receive a visit ; the knight thinks it is from grief at his de- 
parture, his heart is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep 
from showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes 
all, goes to tell her mistress, who listens with tears and says 
that one of her greatest distresses is not knowing who this 
knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not ; the 
damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and 
gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in 
any save one who was royal and illustrious ; her anxiety is 
thus relieved, and she strives to be of good cheer lest she 
should excite suspicion in her parents, and at the end of two 
days she appears in public. Meanwhile the knight has taken 
his departure ; he fights in the war, conquers the king’s enemy, 
wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to the 
court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is 
agreed that he shall demand her in marriage of her parents as 
the reward of his services ; the king is unwilling to give her, 
as he knows not who he is, but nevertheless, whether carried 
off or in whatever other way it may be, the princess comes to 
be his bride, and her father comes to regard it as very good 
fortune ; for it so happens that this knight is proved to be the 
son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not what, for I 


CHAPTER XXL 


155 


fancy it is not likely to be on the map ; the father dies, the 
princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. 
And here comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his 
squire and all who have aided him in rising to so exalted a 
rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of the princess’s, who 
will be, no doubt, the one who was confidante in their amour, 
and is daughter of a very great duke.” 

“ That ’s what I want, no mistake about it ! ” said Sancho. 
That ’s what I ’m waiting for ; for all this, word for word, is 
in store for your worship under the title of The Knight of the 
Kueful Countenance.” 

Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, 
for in the same manner, and by the same steps as I have de- 
scribed here, knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and 
emperors ; all we want now is to find out what king, Christian 
or pagan, is at war and has a beautiful daughter ; but there 
will be time enough to think of that, for, as I have told thee, 
fame must be won in other quarters before repairing to the 
court. There is another thing, too, that is wanting; for 
supposing we find a king who is at war and has a beautiful 
daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the 
universe, I know not how it can be made out that I am of 
royal lineage, or even second cousin to an emperor ; for the 
king will not be willing to give me his daughter in marriage 
unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on this point, however 
much my famous deeds may deserve it; so that by this de- 
ficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned. 
True it is I am a gentleman of a known house, of estate and 
property, and entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulct ; ^ and 
it may be that the sage who shall write my history will so 
clear up my ancestry and pedigree that I may find myself fifth 
or sixth in descent from a king ; for I would have thee know, 
Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in the world; 
some there be tracing and deriving their descent from kings 
and princes, whom time has reduced little by little until they 
end in a point like a pyramid upside down ; and others who 
spring from the common herd and go on rising step by step 

* An "hidalgo de devengar quinientos sueldos,” was one who by the 
ancient fueros of Castile had a right to recover 500 sueldos for an injury 
to person or property. This is the common explanation; Huarte, in the 
Examtn de Ingenios, says it means the descendant of one who enjoyed a 
grant of 500 sueldos for distinguished services in the field. The sueldo 
was an old coin varying in value from a halfpenny to three-halfpence. 


156 


DON QUIXOTE, 


•until they come to be great lords ; so that the difference is that 
the one were what they no longer are, and the others are what 
they formerly were not. And T may be of such that after in- 
vestigation my origin may prove great and famous, with which 
the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied ; 
and should he. not be, the princess will so love me that even 
though she well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she 
will take me for her lord and husband in spite of her father ; 
if not, then it comes to seizing her and carrying her off where 
I please ; for time or death will put an end to the wrath of 
her parents/’ 

It comes to this, too,” said Sancho, what some naughty 
people say, ‘ Never ask as a favor what thou canst take by 
force ; ’ ^ though it would fit better to say, ^ A clear escape is 
better than good men’s prayers.’ ^ I say so because if my lord 
the king, your worship’s father-in-law, will not condescend to 
give you my lady the princess, there is nothing for it but, as 
your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But the mis- 
chief is that until peace is made and you come into the peace- 
ful enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing 
as far as rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel 
that is to be his wife comes with the princess, and that with 
her he tides over his bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders 
things ; for his master, I suppose, may as well give her to him 
dt once for a lawful wife.” 

Nobody can object to that,” said Don Quixote. 

Then since that may be,” said Sancho, there is nothing 
for it but to commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take 
what course it will.” 

“ God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,” said 
Don Quixote, and mean be he who makes himself mean.” ® 

‘‘ In God’s name let him be so,” said Sancho ; I am an old 
Christian, and to fit me for a count that ’s enough.” ^ 

And more than enough for thee,” said Don Quixote ; and 
even wert thou not, it would make no difference, because I 
being the king can easily give thee nobility without purchase 
or service rendered by thee, for when I make thee a count, 
' Prov. 107. 

^ Prov. 212. " Mas vale salto de mata que ruego de hombres buenos.” 

Mata is bere an old equivalent of matanza — ” slaughter ; ” in modern 
Spanish the word means a bush or hedge, in consequence of which the 
proverb is generally misunderstood and mistranslated. 

Prov. 210. ■* Prov. 61. V. note, p. 143. 


CHAPTER XXL 


157 


then thou art at once a gentleman ; and they may say what 
they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee ^ your 
lordship,’ whether they like it or not.” 

Not a doubt of it ; and I ’ll know how to support the tittle,” 
said Sancho. 

“ Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,” said his master. 

“ So be it,” answered Sancho, I say I will know how to 
behave, for once in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and 
a beadle’s gown sat so well on me that all said I looked as if I 
was fit to be steward of the same brotherhood. What will it 
be, then, when I put a duke’s robe on my back, or dress myself 
in gold and pearls like a foreign count ? I believe they will 
come a hundred leagues to see me.” 

Thou wilt look well,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ but thou must 
shave thy beard often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and 
unkempt that if thou dost not shave it every second day at 
least, they will see what thou art at the distance of a musket- 
shot.” 

What more will it be,” said Sancho, “ than having a bar- 
ber, and keeping him at wages in the house ? and even if it be 
necessary, I will make him go behind me like a nobleman’s 
equerry.” 

‘‘ Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries 
behind them ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

I will tell you,” answered Sancho. Years ago I was for 
a month at the capital,^ and there I saw taking the air a very 
small gentleman who they said was a very great man,^ and a 
man following him on horseback in every turn he took, just as 
if he was his tail. I asked why this man did not join the other 
man, instead of always going behind him ; they answered me 
that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles 
to have such persons behind them, and ever since then I know 
it, for I have never forgotten it.” 

‘‘ Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, and in the same way 
thou mayest carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not 
come into use all together nor were they all invented at once, 
and thou mayest be the first count to have a barber to follow 
him ; and, indeed, shaving one’s beard is a greater trust than 
saddling one’s horse.” 

^ Literally " at the Court ” — la Corie. 

^ No doubt Pedro Tellez Giron, third Duke of Osuna, afterwards Vice- 
roy in Sicily and Naples ; " a little man, but of great fame and fortunes,” 
as Howell, writing tAventy years later calls him. 


158 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Let the barber business be my look-out/’ said Sancho ; 
“ and your worship’s be it to strive to become a king, and make 
me a count.” 

So it shall be,” answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes 
he saw what will be told in the following chapter. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 

OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL 
UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING 
CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO. 

CiD Hamet Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, 
relates in this most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, 
and original history that after the discussion between the 
famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire Sancho 
Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one, 
Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he 
was following some dozen men on foot strung together by the 
neck, like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles 
on their hands. With them there came also two men on horse- 
back and two on foot; those on horseback with wheel-lock 
muskets, those on foot with javelins and swords, and as soon 
as Sancho saw them he said, That is a chain of galley slaves, 
on the way to the galleys by force of the king’s orders.” 

How % force ? ” asked Don Quixote ; is it possible that 
the king uses force against any one ? ” 

“ I do not say that,” answered Sancho, but that these are 
people condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the 
king’s galleys.” 

In fact,” replied Don Quixote, however it may be, these 
people are going where they are taking them by force, and not 
of their own will.” 

J ust so,” said Sancho. 

“Then if so,” said Don Quixote, “'here is a case for the 
exercise of my office, to put down force and to succor and help 
the wretched.” 

“Eecollect, your worship,” said Sancho, “Justice, which is 
the king himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such 
persons, but punishing them for their crimes.” 


CHAPTER XX 11. 


159 


The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and 
Don Quixote in very courteous language asked those who were 
in custody of it to be good enough to tell him the reason or 
reasons for which they were conducting these people in this 
manner. One of the guards on horseback answered that they 
were galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that they were 
going to the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and 
all he had any business to know. 

‘‘ Nevertheless,’’ replied Don Quixote, I should like to 
know from each of them separately the reason of his misfort- 
une;” to this he added more to the same effect to induce 
them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that the other 
mounted guard said to him, “ Though we have here the register 
and certificate of the sentence of every one of these wretches, 
this is no time to take them out or read them ; come and ask 
themselves ; they can tell if they choose, and they will, for 
these fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about ras- 
calities.” 

With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken 
even had they not granted it, he approached the chain and asked 
the first for what offences he was now in such a sorry case. 

He made answer that it was for being a lover. 

For that only ? ” replied Don Quixote ; why, if for being 
lovers they send people to the galleys I might have been row- 
ing in them long ago.” 

The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,” said 
the galley slave ; mine was that I loved a washerwoman’s 
basket of clean linen so well, and held it so close in my em- 
brace, that if the arm of the law had not forced it from me, I 
should never have let it go of my own will to this moment ; 
I was caught in the act, there was no. occasion for torture, the 
case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on the 
back, and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end 
of it.” 

What are gurapas ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

Gurapas are galleys,” ^ answered the galley slave, who was 
a young man of about four-and-twenty, and said he was a 
native of Piedrahita. 

* Gurapas^ a word from the " Germania ” or rogue’s dialect, of which 
there are many specimens in this chapter and scattered through Don 
Quixote. Indeed, Juan Hidalgo’s Vocahulario of the Germania tongue 
is absolutely necessary to any one reading the book in the original. 


160 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who 
made no. reply, so downcast and melancholy was he ; but thi 
first answered for him, and said, “ He, sir, goes as a canary, 1 
mean as a musician and a singer.” 

‘‘ What ! said Don Quixote, for being musicians and sing 
ers do people go. to the galleys too ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, sir,” answered the galley slave, for there is nothing 
worse than singing under suffering.” 

“ On the contrary, I have heard say,” said Don Quixote, 
that he who sings scares away his woes.” ^ 

‘‘ Here is the reverse,” said the galley slave ; for he who 
sings once weeps all his life.” 

‘‘ I do not understand it,” said Don Quixote ; but one of the 
guards said to him, Sir, to sing under suffering means with 
the non sancta fraternity to confess under torture ; they put 
this sinner to the torture, and he confessed his crime, which 
was being a cuatrero, that is a cattle-stealer, and on his confes- 
sion they sentenced him to six years in the galleys, besides two 
hundred lashes that he has already had on the back ; and he is 
always dejected and downcast because the other thieves that 
were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, and 
jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit 
enough to say nay ; for, say they, ‘ nay ’ has no more letters in 
it than ^ yea,^ ^ and a culprit is well off when life or death with 
him depends on his own tongue and not on that of witnesses 
or evidence ; and to my thinking they are not very far out.” 

“ And I think so too,” answered Don Quixote ; then passing 
on to the third he asked him what he had asked the others, and 
the man answered very readily and unconcernedly, “ I am go- 
ing for five years to their ladyships the gurapas for the want 
of ten ducats.” 

I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that 
trouble,” said Don Quixote. 

That,” said the galley slave, “ is like a man having money 
at sea when he is dying of hunger and has no way of buying 
what he wants ; I say so because if at the right time I had had 
those twenty ducats that your worship now offers me, I would 
have greased the notary’s pen and freshened up the attorney’s 
wit with them, so that to-day I should be in the middle gf the 
plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road coupled 
like a greyhound. But God is great ; patience — there, that ’s 
enough of it.” 

* Prov. 32. * Prov. 126. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


161 


Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable 
aspect with a white beard falling below his breast, who on hear- 
ing himself asked the reason of his being there began to weep 
Avithour. answering a word, but the fifth acted as his tongue 
and said, This worthy man is going to the galleys for four 
years, after having gone the rounds in the robe of ceremony 
and on horseback/’ * 

That means,” said Sancho Panza, as 1 take it, to have 
been exposed to shame in public.” 

Just so,” replied the galley slave, “ and the offence for 
which they gave him that punishment was having been an 
ear-broker, nay body-broker ; 1 mean, in short, that this gentle- 
man goes as a pimp, and for having besides a certain touch of 
the sorcerer about him.” 

If that touch had not been thrown in,” said Don Quixote, 
“ he would not deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the gal- 
leys, but rather to command and be admiral of them ; for the 
office of pimp is no ordinary one, being the office of persons of 
discretion, one very necessary in a well-ordered state, and only 
to be exercised by persons of good birth ; nay, there ought to 
be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other offices, and a 
fixed and recognized number, as with the brokers on change ; 
in this way many of the evils would be avoided which are 
caused by this office and calling being in the hands of stupid 
and ignorant people, such as women more or less silly, and 
pages and jesters of little standing and experience, who on the 
most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of contrhmnce is 
needed, let the. crumbs freeze on the way to their mouths,^ and 
know not which is their right hand. I would go further, and 
give reasons to show that it is advisable to choose those who 
are to hold so necessary an office in the state, but this is not 
the fit place for it ; some day I will expound the matter to 
some one able to see to and rectify it ; all I say now is, that 
the additional fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the 
sorrow it gave me to see these white hairs and this venerable 
countenance in so painful a position on account of his being a 
pimp ; though I know well there are no sorceries in the world 
that can move or compel the will as some simple folk fancy, 
for our will is free, nor is there herb or charm that can force 

1 Malefactors were commonly whipped in this way, and the ceremony is 
frequently alluded to in the Picaresque novels. 

* Prov. 186 . - 

VOL. I. -^11 


162 


DON QUIXOTE, 


it. All that certain silly women and quacks do is to turn men 
mad with potions and poisons, pretending that they have 
power to cause love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to 
compel the will.” 

It is true,” said the good old man, and indeed, sir, as far 
as the charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty ; as to that of 
being a pimp I cannot deny it ; but I never thought I was 
doing any harm by it, for my only object was that all the 
world should enjoy itself and live in peace and quiet, without 
quarrels or troubles ; but my good intentions were unavailing 
to save me from going where I never expect to come back 
from, with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment 
that never gives me a moment’s ease ; ” and again he fell to 
weeping as before, and such compassion did Sancho feel for 
him that he took out a real of four from his bosom and gave 
it to him in alms. 

Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, 
and the man answered with no less but rather much more 
sprightliness than the last one, “ I am here because I carried 
the joke too far with a couple of cousins of mine, and with a 
couple of other cousins who were none of mine ; in short, I 
carried the joke so far with them all that it ended in such a 
complicated increase of kindred that no accountant could make 
it clear : it was all proved against me, I got no favor, I had no 
money, I was near having my neck stretched, they sentenced 
me to the galleys for six years, I accepted my fate, it is the 
punishment of my fault ; I am a young man ; let life only last, 
and with that all will come right. If you, sir, have anything 
wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it to you in heaven, 
and we on earth will take care in our petitions to him to pray 
for the life and health of your worship, that they may be as 
long and as good as your amiable appearance deserves.” This 
one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said 
he was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar. 

Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very person- 
able fellow, except that when he looked his eyes turned in a 
little, one towards the other. He was bound differently from 
the rest, for he had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound 
all round his body, and two rings on his neck, one attached to 
the chain, the other to what they call a “ keep-friend ” or 
friend’s foot,” from which hung two irons reaching to his 
waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands 


CHAPTER XXIL 


163 


were secured by a big padlock, so that he could neither raise 
his hand to his mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don 
Quixote asked why this man carried so many more chains than 
the others. The guard replied that it was because he alone 
had committed more crimes than all the rest put together, and 
was so daring and such a villain, that though they marched 
him in that fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in 
dr^ad of his making his escape. 

‘‘ What crimes can he have committed,’^ said Don Quixote, 
if they have not deserved a heavier punishment than being 
sent to the galleys ? 

“ He goes for ten years,” replied the guard, which is the 
same thing as civil death, and all that need be said is that this 
good fellow is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise 
called Ginesillo de Parapilla.” 

Gently, senor commissary,” said the galley slave at this, 
“ let us have no fixing of names or surnames ; my name is 
Gines, not Ginesillo, and my family name is Pasamonte, not 
Parapilla as you say ; let each one mind his own business, and 
he will be doing enough.” 

‘‘ Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra meas- 
ure, replied the commissary, “ if you don’t want me to make 
you hold your tongue in spite of your teeth.” 

It is easy to see,” returned the galley slave, that man 
goes as God pleases,^ but some one shall know some day 
whether I am called Ginesillo de Parapilla or not.” 

Don’t they call you so, you liar ? ” said the guard. 

They do,” returned Gines, but I will make them give 
over calling me so with a vengeance ; where, I won’t say. If 
you, sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once, and 
God speed you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this 
inquisitiveness about the lives of others ; if you want to know 
about mine let me tell you I am Gines de Pasamonte, whose 
life is written by these fingers.” 

He says true,” said the commissary, for he has himself 
written his story as grand as you please, and has left the book 
in the prison in pawn for two hundred reals.” 

And I mean to take it out of pawn,” said Gines, though 
it were in for two hundred ducats.” 

Is it so good ? ” said Don Quixote. 

So good is it,” replied Gines, that a fig for ^ Lazarillo de 
* Prov. 79. 


164 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Tormes/ and all of that kind that have been written/ or shall 
be written, compared with it ; all I will say about it is that it 
deals with facts, and facts so neat and diverting that no lies 
could match them/’ 

“ And how is the book entitled ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

The ‘ Life of Dines de Pasamonte,” replied the subject 
of it. 

And is it finished ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

How can it be finished,” said the other, when my life is 
not yet finished ? ” All that is written is from my birth down 
to the point when they sent me to the galleys this last time.” 

Then you have been there before ? ” said Don Quixote. 

“ In the service of God and the king I have been there for 
four years before now, and I know by this time what the 
biscuit and courbash are like,” replied Gines ; and it is no 
great grievance to me to go back to them, for there I shall 
have time to finish my book ; I have still many things left to 
say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than enough 
leisure ; though I do not want much for what I have to write, 
for I have it by heart.” 

“ You seem a clever fellow,” said Don Quixote. 

“ And an unfortunate one,” replied Gines, for misfortune 
always persecutes wit.” 

It persecutes rogues,” said the commissary. 

I told you already to go gently, master commissary,” said 
Pasamonte ; their lordships yonder never gave you that staff 
to ill-treat us wretches here, but to conduct and take us where 
his majesty orders you ; if not, by the life of — never mind — ; 
it may be that some day the stains made in the inn will come 
out in the scouring ; ^ let every one hold his tongue and behave 
well and speak better ; and now let us march on, for we have 
had quite enough of this entertainment.” 

The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in re- 
turn for his threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and 

*At the time Cervantes was writing the only book of the kind (i.e. 
picaresque fiction) that had appeared besides Lazarillo de Tormes was 
Aleman’s Guzman de Alfarache,, at which, it has been suggested, this 
passage is aimed. 

* Prov. 53. Clemencin thinks that there is an allusion here to Aleman’s 
Guzman de Alfarache,, the hero of which is sent to the galleys like Gines 
de Pasamonte, and at an inn on the road ingratiates himself with the 
commissary by presenting him with a pig he had stolen. But Clemencin 
forgot that this incident occurs in the Second Part of Guzman,, which 
was not published till after Don Quixote. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


165 


begged him not to ill-use him, as it was not too much to allow 
one who had his hands tied to have his tongue a trifle free ; 
and turning to the whole chain of them he said, From all you 
have told me, dear brethren, I make out clearly that though 
they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you 
are about to endure do not give you much pleasure, and that 
you go to them very much against the grain and against your 
will, and that perhaps this one’s want of courage under torture, 
that one’s want of money, the other’s want of advocacy, and 
lastly the perverted judgment of the judge may have been the 
cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain the justice you 
had on your side. All which presents itself now to my mind, 
urging, persuading, and even compelling me to demonstrate in 
your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the world 
and caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to 
which I belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those 
in need and under the oppression of the strong. But as I know 
that it is a mark of prudence not to do by foul means what 
may be done by fair, I will ask these gentlemen, the guards 
and commissary, to be so good as to release you and let you 
go in peace, as there will be no lack of others to serve the king 
under more favorable circumstances ; for it seems to me a hard 
case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made 
free. Moreover, sirs of the guard,” added Don Quixote, these 
poor fellows have done nothing to you ; let each answer for 
his own sins yonder ; there is a God in heaven who will not 
forget to punish the wicked or reward the good ; and it is not 
fitting that honest men should be the instruments of punish- 
ment to others, they being therein no way concerned. This 
request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you comply 
with it, I may have reason for thanking you ; and, if you will 
not voluntarily, this lance and sword together with the might 
of my arm shall compel you to comply with it by force.” 

“ Nice nonsense ! ” said the commissary ; a fine piece of 
pleasantry he has come out with at last ! He wants us to let 
the king’s prisoners go, as if we had any authority to release 
them, or he to order us to do so ! Go your way, sir, and good 
luck to you ; put that basin straight that you’ve got on your 
head, and don’t go looking for three feet on a cat.” ^ 

(( is you that are the cat, the rat, and the rascal,” replied 

* Prov. 103. Of course it should be " five ; ” and the proverb is so given 
by Blasco de Garay. 


166 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Don Quixote, and acting on the word he fell upon him so sud- 
denly that without giving him time to defend himsel f he brought 
him to the ground sorely wounded with a lance-thrust, and lucky 
ti was for him that it was the one that had the musket. The 
other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this unex- 
pected event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horse- 
back ^ seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and 
attacked Don Quixote, who was waiting for them with great 
calmness ; and no doubt it would have gone badly with him if 
the galley slaves seeing the chance before them of liberating 
themselves had not effected it by contriving to break the chain 
on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, that the 
guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking 
loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, 
did nothing at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, 
gave a helping hand to release Dines de Pasamonte, who was 
the first to leap forth upon the plain free and unfettered, and 
who, attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his 
sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and levelling 
at another, he, without ever discharging it, drove every one of 
the guards off the field, for they took to flight, as well to 
escape Pasanionte’s musket, as the showers of stones the now 
released galley slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was 
greatly grieved at the affair, because he anticipated that those 
who had fled would report the matter to the Holy Brother- 
hood, who at the summons of the alarm-bell would at once 
sally forth in quest of the offenders ; and he said so to his 
master, and entreated him to leave the place at once, and go 
into hiding in the sierra that was close by. 

That is all very well,’’ said Don Quixote, but I know 
what must be done now ; ” and calling together all the galley 
slaves, who were now running riot, and had stripped the com- 
missary to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what 
he had to say, and addressed them as follows : To be grateful 
for benefits received is the part of persons of good birth, and 
one of the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude ; I say so 
because, sirs, ye have already seen by manifest proof the bene- 
fit ye have received from me ; in return for which I desire, and 
it is my good pleasure that, laden with that chain which I 
have taken off your necks, ye at once set out and proceed to 

' At the beginning of the chapter we were told there were only two on 
horseback, and that both of them had muskets. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


167 


the city of El Toboso, and there present yourselves before the 
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he 
of the Rueful Countenance, sends to commend himself to her ; 
and that ye recount to her in full detail all the particulars of 
this notable adventure, up to the recovery of your longed-for 
liberty; and this done ye may go where ye will, and good 
fortune attend you.’’ 

Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, That 
which you, sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impos- 
sibilities the most impossible to comply with, because we can 
not go together along the roads, but onlj’ singly and separate, 
and each one his own way, endeavoring to hide ourselves 
in the bowels of the earth to escape the Holy Brotherhood, 
which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What 
your worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service 
and tribute as regards the lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a 
certain quantity of ave-marias and credos which we will say 
for your worship’s intention,^ and this is a condition that can 
be complied with by night as well as by day, running or rest- 
ing, in peace or in war ; but to imagine that we are going now 
to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to take up our 
chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now 
night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to ask this 
of us is like asking pears of the elm tree.” ^ 

“ Then by all that ’s good,” said Don Quixote (now stirred to 
wrath), Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or 
whatever your name is, you will have to go yourself alone, 
with your tail between your legs and the whole chain on your 
back.” 

Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time 
thoroughly convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in 
his head as he had committed such a vagary as trying to set 
them free), finding himself abused in this fashion, gave the 
wink to his companions, and falling back they began to shower 
stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite unable 
to protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more 
heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho 
planted himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered him- 
self from the hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don 
Quixote was unable to shield himself so well but that more 

' To pray for " the intention ” of another is a proof of devotional sym- 
pathy. ^ Prov. 180 . 


168 


DON QUIXOTE. 


pebbles than I could count struck him full on the body with 
such force that they brought him to the ground ; and the in- 
stant he fell the student pounced upon him, snatched the 
basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows on 
his shoulders, and as many more on the ground knocking it al- 
most to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he 
wore over his armor, and they would have stripped off his 
stockings if his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho 
they took his coat, leaving him in his shirt-sleeves ; and divid- 
ing among themselves the remaining spoils of the battle, they 
went each one his own way, more solicitous about keeping 
clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than about bur- 
dening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves 
before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Kocinante, 
Sancho and Don Quixote, were all that were left upon the 
spot; the ass with drooping head, serious, shaking his ears 
from time to time as if he thought the storm of stones that 
assailed them was not yet over ; Kocinante stretched beside his 
master, for he too had been brought to the ground by a stone ; 
Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the Holy Brother- 
hood ; and Don Quixote fuming to find himself so served by the 
very persons for whom he had done so much. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, 
WHICH WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN 
THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY. 

Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his 
squire, I have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good 
to boors is to throw water into the sea.^ If I had believed 
thy words, I should have avoided this trouble ; but it is done 
now, it is only to have patience and take warning from this 
for the future.’’ 

Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,” 
returned Sancho ; but, as you say this mischief might have 
been avoided if you had believed me, believe me now, and a 
still greater one will be avoided ; for I tell you chivalry is of 
* Prov. 246. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


169 


no account with the Holy Brotherhood, and they don’t care two 
maravedis for all the knights-errant in the world ; and I can 
tell you I fancy I hear their arrows whistling past my ears this 
minute.” 

Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 

but lest thou shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never 
do as thou dost advise, this once I will take thy advice, and 
withdraw out of reach of that fury thou so dreadest ; but it 
must be on one condition, that never, in life or in death, thou 
art to say to any one that I retired or withdrew from this danger 
out of fear, but only in compliance with thy entreaties ; for if 
thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and from this time 
to that, and from that to this, I give thee the lie, and say thou 
Rest and wilt lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it ; and 
answer me not again ; for at the mere thought that I am with- 
drawing or retiring from any danger, above all from this, which 
does seem to carry some little shadow of fear with it, I am 
ready to take my stand here and wait alone, not only that Holy 
Brotherhood you talk of and dread, but the brothers of the 
twelve tribes of Israel, and the seven Maccabees, and Castor 
and Bollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods in the world.” 

“ Senor,” replied Sancho, to retire is not to flee, and there 
is no wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it 
is the part of wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to- 
morrow, and not risk all in one day ; and let me tell you, though 
I am a clown and a boor, I have got some notion of what they 
call safe conduct : so repent not of having taken my advice, 
but mount Kocinante if you can, and if not I will help you ; 
and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have more need 
of legs than hands just now.” 

Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading 
the way on his ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena, 
which was close by, as it was Sancho’s design to cross it en- 
tirely and come out again at El Viso or Almodovar del Campo,^ 
and hide for some days among its crags so as to escape the 

^ These" are towns of La Mancha, though from the wording of the passage 
it might be supposed that they lay on the other, the Andalusian, side of the 
Sierra Morena. It is significant that Cervantes always speaks of " enter- 
ing ” and " coming out of” the Sierra Morena, never of ascending or de- 
scending it : and, in fact, on the north side the Sierra rises but little above 
the level of the great Castilian plateau and the road enters the gorge of 
Despenaperros, and reaches the Andalusian slope with comparatively little 
ascent. 


170 


DON QUIXOTE. 


search of the Brotherhood should they come to look for them 
He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock of pro- 
visions carried by the ass had come safe out of the fray with 
the galley slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a miracle, 
seeing how they pillaged and ransacked. 

That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, 
where it seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even 
some days, at least as many as the stores he carried might last, 
and so they encamped between two rocks and among some 
cork trees ; but fatal destiny, which, according to the opinion of 
those who have not the light of the true faith, directs, arranges, 
and settles everything in its own way, so ordered it that Gines 
de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by the virtue 
and madness of Don Quixote had been released from the chain, 
driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good 
reason to dread, resolved to take hiding in the mountains ; and 
his fate and fear led him to the same spot to which Don 
Quixote and Sancho Panza had been led by theirs, just in time 
to recognize them and leave them to fall asleep : and as the 
wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to wrong- 
doing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations 
of the future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor well- 
principled, made up his mind to steal Sancho Panza’s ass, not 
troubling himself about Kocinante, as being a prize That was 
no good either to pledge or sell. While Sancho slept he stole 
his ass, and before day dawned he was far out of reach. 

Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth 
but sadness to Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple ^ 

'"Dapple,” as I have said elsewhere, is not a correct translation of 
r?<cto, but it has by long usage acquired a prescriptive right to remain the 
name of Sancho’s ass. Rucio is properly a light or silvery gray, as pardo 
is a dark or iron gray. 

The passage — beginning at " That night they reached the very heart,” 
etc., and ending with " returned thanks for the kindness shown him by Don 
Quixote ” — does not appear in the first edition, in which there is no allu- 
sion to the loss of the ass until the middle of chapter xxv., where, without 
any explanation of how it happened, Cervantes speaks of Dapple as 
having been lost. When the second edition was in the press, an attempt 
was made to remedy the oversight, and the printer, apparently proprio 
motu^ supplied this passage. Chapter xxx., where Don Quixote laments 
the loss of his "good sword,” suggested Gines de Pasamonte as the thief, 
and chapter xxv. the promise of the ass-colts; but in such a bungling 
manner was the correction made that the references to the ass as if still 
in Sancho’s possession (nine or ten in number) were left unaltered, 
though the first of them occurs only four or five lines after the inserted 


CHAPTER XX 1 11. 


171 


was missing, and seeing himself bereft of him he began the 
saddest and most doleful lament in the world, so loud that Don 
Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard him saying, “ 0 
son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children’s play- 
thing, my wife’s joy, the envy of my neighbors, relief of my 
burdens, and, lastly, half supporter of myself, for with the six- 
and-twenty maravedis thou didst earn me daily I met half my 
charges.” 

Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the 
cause, consoled Sancho with the best arguments he could, en- 
treating him to be patient, and promising to give him a letter 
of exchange ordering three out of five ass-colts ^ that he had at 
home to be given to him. Sancho took comfort at this, dried 
his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned thanks for the 
kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was 
rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed 
to him to be just the place for the adventures he was in quest 
of. They brought back to his memory the marvellous ad- 
ventures that had befallen knights-errant in like solitudes and 
wilds, and he went along reflecting on these things, so ab- 
sorbed and carried away by them that he had no thought for 
anything else. Hor had Sancho any other care (now that he 
fancied he was travelling in a safe quarter) than to satisfy his 
appetite with such remains as were left of the clerical spoils, 
and so he marched behind his master laden with what Dapple 
used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his paunch, and 
so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a 
farthing to meet with another adventure. 

While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master 

passage. In the third edition of 1608 some of these inconsistencies were 
removed, and in the Second Part Cervantes refers to the matter, and 
charges the printer with the blunder. What he originally intended, no 
doubt, was to supplement the burlesque of the penance of Amadis by a 
burlesque of Brunello’s theft of Sacripante’s horse and Marfisa’s sword 
at the siege of Albracca, as described by Boiardo and Ariosto ; and it was 
very possibly an after-thought written on a loose leaf and so mislaid or 
lost in transitu. The inserted passage is clearly not his, as it is com- 
pletely ignored by him in chapters iii., iv., and xxvii. of Part II., and is 
inconsistent with the account of the affair which he gives there. Hartzen- 
busch removes the passage to what he conceives to be its proper place in 
chapter xxv., but it is hardly worth while, perhaps, to alter the familiar 
arrangement of the next. See notes on chapter xxx. ; and iii., iv., and 
xxvii.. Part II. 

^ Pollinos, ” ass-colts,” has evidently been omitted here in the original, 
and I have therefore supplied it. 


172 


DON QUIXOTE, 


had halted, and was trying with the point of his pike to lift 
some bulky object that lay upon the ground, on which he 
hastened to join him and help him if it were needful, and 
reached him just as with the point of the pike he was raising 
a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or rather wholly 
rotten and torn ; but so heavy were they that Sancho had to 
help to take them up, and his master directed him to see what 
the valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity, and 
though the valise was secured by a chain and padlock, from 
its torn and rotten condition he was able to see its contents, 
which were four shirts of fine holland, and other articles of 
linen no less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he 
found a good lot of gold crowns, and as soon as he saw them 
he exclaimed, Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an ad- 
venture that is good for something ! ’’ Searching further he 
found a little memorandum book richly bound; this Don 
Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the money and keep 
it for himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favor, and 
cleared the valise of its linen, which he stowed away in the 
provision sack. Considering the whole matter, Don Quixote 
observed, It seems to me, Sancho — and it is impossible it 
can be otherwise — that some strayed traveller must have 
crossed this sierra and been attacked and slain by footpads, 
who brought him to this remote spot to bury him.’^ 

That can not be,” answered Sancho, because if they had 
been robbers they would not have left this money.” 

Thou art right,” said Don Quixote, and I can not guess or 
explain what this may mean ; but stay ; let us see if in this 
memorandum book there is anything written by which we 
may be able to trace out or discover what we want to know.” 

He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written 
roughly but in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading 
it aloud that Sancho might hear it, he found that it ran as 
follows ; 


SONNET. 

Or Love is lacking in intelligence. 

Or to the height of cruelty attains. 

Or else it is my doom to suffer pains 
Beyond the measure due to my ofence. 

But if Love be a G-od, it follows thence 
That he knows all, and certain it remains 


CHAPTER XXI I L 


173 


No God loves cruelty ; then who ordains 
This penance that inthrals while it torments ? 

It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name ; 

Such evil with such goodness can not live ; 

And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame, 

I only know it is my fate to die. 

To him who knows not whence his malady 
A miracle alone a cure can give.^ 

‘‘There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,’^ said 
Sancho, “ unless by that clew there ^s in it, one may draw out 
the ball of the whole matter.’’ * 

“ What clew is there ? ” said Don Quixote. 

“ I thought your worship spoke of a clew in it,” said 
Sancho. 

“ I only said Chloe,” replied Don Quixote ; “ and that, no 
doubt, is the name of the lady of whom the author of the 
sonnet complains ; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or 
I know little of the craft.” 

“ Then your worship understands rhyming too ? ” said 
Sancho. 

“ And better than thou thinkest,” replied Don Quixote, “ as 
tnou shalt see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from 
beginning to end to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would 
have thee know, Sancho, that all or most of the knights-errant 
in days of yore were great troubadours and great musicians, 
for both of these accomplishments, or more properly speaking 
gifts, are the peculiar property of lovers-errant : true it is that 
the verses of the knights of old have more spirit than neatness 
in them.” 

“ Read more, your worship,” said Sancho, “ and you will 
find something that will enlighten us.” 

Don Quixote turned the page and said, “ This is prose and 
seems to be a letter.” 

^ This sonnet Cervantes afterwards inserted in his comedy of the Casa 
de los Zelos^ a proof that he himself had as good an opinion of it as Don 
Quixote ; though Clemencin says, and not without some reason, that " it 
is no great things ” — " no vale gran cosa” 

® A reference to the proverbs. For el hilo se saca el ovillo — "by the 
thread (or clew) the ball is drawn out.” In the sonnet the lady’s name 
is Fili, which Sancho mistakes for hilo or jilo. The substitution of 
" Chloe ” by Avhich the play on the words may be imitated is a happy idea 
of Jervas’s which has been generally adopted by subsequent translators 
without any acknowledgment. 


174 


DON QUIXOTE. 


A correspondence letter, senor ? asked Sancho. 

“ From the beginning it seems to be a love-letter/^ replied 
Don Quixote. 

“ Then let your worship read it aloud/’ said Sancho, for I 
am very fond of these love matters.” 

With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud 
^is Sancho had requested him, he found it ran thus : 

Jhy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a 
place whence the news of my death will reach thy ears before 
the words of my complaint. Ungrateful one, thou hast re* 
jected me for one more wealthy, but not more worthy ; but if 
virtue ivere esteemed wealth I should neither envy the fortunes 
of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy 
beauty raised up thy deeds have laid low ; by it I believed thee 
to be an angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be 
with thee who hast sent war to me, and Heaven grant that the 
deceit of thy husband be ever hidden from thee, so that thou 
repent not of what thou hast done, and I reap not a revenge 1 
would not have. 

When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, There 
is less to be gathered from this than from the verses, except 
that he who wrote it is some rejected lover ; ” and turning over 
nearly all the pages of the book he found more verses and let- 
ters, some of which he could read, while others he could not : 
but they were all made up of complaints, laments, misgivings, 
desires and aversions, favors and rejections, some rapturous, 
some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho 
examined the valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or 
in the pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or 
seam that he did not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick 
to pieces, lest anything should escape for want of care and 
pains ; so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the dis- 
covery of the crowns, which amounted to near a hundred ; and 
though he found no more booty, he held the blanket flights, 
balsam vomits, stake benedictions, carriers’ fisticuffs, missing 
alforjas, stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and weariness 
he had endured in the service of his good master, cheap at the 
price ; as he considered himself more than fully indemnified for 
all by the payment he received in the gift of the treasure-trove. 

The Knight of the Eueful Countenance was still very anx- 
ious to find out who the owner of the valise could be, CQnjectur- 
ing from the sonnet and letter, from the money in gold, and 


CHAPTER XXIII, 


175 


from the fineness of the shirts, that he must be some lover of 
distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of his lady had driven 
to some desperate course ; but as in that uninhabited and 
rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom he could in- 
quire, he saw nothing else for it but to push on taking what- 
ever road E-ocinante chose — which was where he could make 
his way — firmly persuaded that among these wilds he could 
not fail to meet some rare adventure. As he went along, then, 
occupied with these thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a 
height that rose before their eyes a man who went springing 
from rock to rock and from tussock to tussock with marvellous 
agility. As well as he could make out he was unclad, with a 
thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and feet, 
his thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet 
but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places. He 
was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which 
he passed as has been described, the Knight of the Eueful 
Countenance observed and noted all these trifles, and though 
he made the attempt, he was unable to follow him, for it was 
not granted to the feebleness of Eocinante to make way over 
such rough ground, he being, moreover, slow-paced and sluggish 
by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the conclusion that 
this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the valise, and 
made up his mind to go in search of him, even though he 
should have to wander a year in those mountains before he 
found him, and so he directed Sancho to take a short cut over 
one side of the mountain, while he himself went by the other, 
and perhaps by this means they might light upon this man 
who had passed so quickly out of their sight. 

I could not do that,’’ said Sancho, for when I separate 
from your worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails 
me with all sorts of panics and fancies ; and let what I now 
say be a notice that from this time forth I am not going to stir 
a finger’s length from your presence.” 

It shall be so,” said he of the Eueful Countenance, and 
I am very glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, 
which will never fail thee, even though the soul in thy body 
fail thee ; so come on now behind me slowly as well as thou 
canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes ; let us make the cir- 
cuit of this ridge ; perhaps we shall light upon this man that 
we saw, who no doubt is no other than the owner of what we 
found.” 


176 


DON QUIXOTE. 


To which Sancho made answer, Far better would it be not 
to look for him, for if we find him, and he happens to be the 
owner of the money, it is plain I must restore it ; it would be 
better, therefore, that without taking this needless trouble, I 
should keep possession of it until in some other less meddle- 
some and officious way the real owner may be discovered ; and 
perhaps that will be when I shall have spent it, and then the 
king will hold me harmless.’’ 

Thou art wrong there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, for now 
that we have a suspicion who the owner is, and have him 
almost before us, we are bound to seek him and make restitu- 
tion ; and if we do not seek him, the strong suspicion we have 
as to his being the owner makes us as guilty as if he were so ; 
and so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him give thee any 
uneasiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine.” 

And so saying he gave Eocinante the spur, and Sancho 
followed him on foot and loaded, thanks to Ginesillo de Pasa- 
monte, and after having partly made the circuit of the moun- 
tain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by 
dogs and pecked by crows, a mule saddled and bridled, all 
which still further strengthened their suspicion that he who 
had fled was the owner of the mule and the saddle-pad. 

As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of 
a shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there 
appeared a great number of goats, and behind them on the 
summit of the mountain the goatherd in charge of them, a 
man advanced in years. Don Quixote called aloud to him and 
begged him to come down to where they stood. He shouted 
in return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom 
or never trodden except by the feet of goats, or of the wolves 
and other wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return 
bade him come down, and they would explain all to him. 

The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don 
Quixote stood, he said, I will wager you are looking at that 
hack mule that lies dead in the hollow there, and, faith, it 
has been lying there now these six months ; tell me, have you 
come upon its master about here ? ” 

We have come upon nobody,” answered Don Quixote, ^^nor 
on anything except a saddle-pad and a little valise that wu 
found not far from this.” 

I found it too,” said the goatherd, but I would not lift 
it nor go near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


177 


theft, for the devil is crafty, and things rise up under one’s 
feet to make one stumble and fall without knowing why or 
wherefore.” 

That ’s exactly what I say,” said Sancho ; I found it too, 
and I would not go within a stone’s throw of it ; there I left 
it, and there it lies just as it was, for I don’t want a dog with 
a bell.” 1 

Tell me, good man,” said Don Quixote, do you know who 
is the owner of this property ? ” 

All I can tell you,” said the goatherd, is that about six 
months ago, more or less, there arrived at a shepherd’s hut 
three leagues, perhaps, away from this, a youth of well-bred 
appearance and manners, mounted on that same mule which 
lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and valise which 
you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part 
of this sierra was the most rugged and retired ; we told him 
that it was where we now are ; and so in truth it is, for if you 
push on half a league farther, perhaps you will not be able to 
find your way out ; and I am wondering how you have managed 
to come here, for there is no road or path that leads to this 
spot. I say, then, that on hearing our answer the youth turned 
about and made for the place we pointed out to him, leaving 
us all charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his ques- 
tion and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direc- 
tion of the sierra ; and after that we saw him no more, until 
some days afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shep- 
herds, and without saying a word to him, came up to him and 
gave him several cuffs and kicks, and then turned to the ass 
with our provisions and took all the bread and cheese it carried, 
and having done this made off back again into the sierra with 
extraordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds learned 
this we went in search of him for about two days through the 
most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of which we 
found him lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He 
came out to meet us with great gentleness, with his dress now 
torn and his face so disfigured and burned by the sun, that we 
hardly recognized him but that his clothes, though torn, con- 
vinced us, from the recollection we had of them, that he was 
the person we were looking for. He saluted us courteously, 
and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at 

* Prov. 182 — meaning, I don’t want a thing that has any inconyenience 
attached to it. 

VOL. 1.— 12. 


178 


DON QUIXOTE. 


seeing him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon 
him in order that he might work out a penance which for his 
many sins had been imposed upon him. We asked him to 
tell us who he was, but we were never able to find out from 
him : we begged of him too, when he was in want of food, 
which he could not do without, to tell us where we should find 
him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and readi- 
ness ; or if this were not to his taste, at least to come and ask 
it of us and not take it by force from the shepherds. He 
thanked us for the offer, begged pardon for the late assault, 
and promised for the future to ask it in God’s name without 
offering violence to anybody. As for fixed abode, he said he 
had no other than that which chance offered wherever night 
might overtake him ; and his words ended in an outburst of 
weeping so bitter that we who listened to him must have been 
very stones had we not joined him in it, comparing what we 
saw of him the first time with what we saw now ; for, as I 
said, he was a graceful and gracious youth, and in his courteous 
and polished language showed himself to be of good birth and 
courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to him, 
even to our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed to make it plain. 
But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became 
silent, keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, 
during which we stood still waiting anxiously to see what 
would come of this abstraction ; and with no little pity, for 
from his behavior, now staring at the ground with fixed gaze 
and eyes wide open without moving an eyelid, again closing 
them, compressing his lips and raising his eyebrows, we could 
perceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind had come 
upon him ; and before long he showed that what we imagined 
was the truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where 
he had thrown himself, and attacked the first he found near 
him with such rage and fierceness that if we had not dragged 
him off him, he would have beaten or bitten him to death, all 
the while exclaiming, ^ Oh faithless Fernando, here, here shalt 
thou pay the penalty of the wrong thou hast done me ; these 
hands shall tear out that heart of thine, abode and dwelling of 
all iniquity, but of deceit and fraud above all ; ’ and to these 
he added other words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando 
and charging him with treachery and faithlessness. We forced 
him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and without 
another word he left us, and rushing oft’ plunged in among 


CHAPTER XXII I . 


179 


these brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us 
CO follow him ; from this we suppose that madness comes upon 
him from time to time, and that some one called Fernando 
must have done him a wrong of a grievous nature such as the 
condition to which it had brought him seemed to show. All 
this has been since then confirmed on those occasions, and they 
have been many, on which he has crossed our path, at one time 
to beg the shepherds to give him some of the food they carry, 
at another to take it from them by force ; for when there is a 
fit of madness upon him, even though the shepherds offer it 
freely, he will not accept it but snatches it from them by dint 
of blows ; but when he is in his senses he begs it for the love 
of God, courteously and civilly, and receives it with many 
thanks and not a few tears. And to tell you the truth, sirs,” 
continued the goatherd, “ it was yesterday that we resolved, 
I and four of the lads, two of them our servants, and the other 
two friends of mine, to go in search of him until we find him, 
and when we do to take him, whether by force or of his own 
consent, to the town of Almodovar, which is eight leagues from 
this, and there strive to cure him (if indeed his malady admits 
of a cure), or learn when he is in his senses who he is, and if 
he has relatives to whom we may give notice of his misfortune. 
This, sirs, is all I can say in answer to what you have asked 
me ; and be sure that the owner of the articles you found is he 
whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and so naked.” 

For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the 
man go bounding along the mountain side, and he was now 
filled with amazement at what he heard from the goatherd, 
and more ea.ger than ever to discover who the unhappy mad- 
man was ; and in his heart he resolved, as he had done before, 
to search for him all over the mountain, not leaving a corner 
or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance ar- 
ranged matters better than he expected or hoped, for at that 
very moment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where 
they stood, the youth he wished to find made his appearance, 
coming along talking to himself in a way that would have been 
unintelligible near at hand, much more at a distance. His 
garb was what has been described, save that as he drew near, 
Don Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet which he wore 
was amber-scented^^ from which he concluded that one who 

^ Tliis is the explanation commonly given of the phrase de &mhar^ and 
it is true that scented doublets were in fashion in the sixteenth century ; 


180 


DON QUIXOTE, 


wore such garments could not be of very low rank. Approach- 
ing them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice 
but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation 
with equal politeness, and dismounting from Bocinante ad- 
vanced with well-bred bearing and grace to embrace him, and 
held him for some time close in his arms as if he had known 
him for a long time. The other, whom we may call the 
Bagged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of 
the Bueful, after submitting to the embrace pushed him back 
a little and, placing his hands on Don Quixote’s shoulders, 
stood gazing at him as if seeking to see whether he knew him, 
not less amazed, perhaps, at the sight of the face, figure, and 
armor of Don Quixote than Don Quixote was at the sight of 
him. To be brief, the first to speak after embracing was the 
Bagged One, and he said what will be told farther on. 


CHAPTEB XXiy. 

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA 
MORENA. 

The history relates that it was with the greatest attention 
Don Quixote listened to the ill-starred Knight of the Sierra, 
who began by saying, “ Of a surety, senor, whoever you are, for 
I know you not, I thank you for the proofs of kindness and 
courtesy you have shown me, and would I were in a condition 
to requite with something more than good-will that which you 
have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have 
given me ; but my fate does not afford me any other means of 
returning kindnesses done me save the hearty desire to repay 
them.” 

“ Mine,” replied Don Quixote, is to be of service to you, 
so much so that I had resolved not to quit these mountains 
until I had found you, and learned of you whether there is any 
kind of relief to be found for that sorrow under which from 
the strangeness of your life you seem to labor ; and to search 
for you with all possible diligence, if search had been necessary. 

but it seems somewhat improbable that a tattered doublet which had been 
for six months exposed to all weathers would have retained sufficient per- 
fume to be detected. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


181 


And if yonr misfortune should prove to be one of those that 
refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my purpose 
to join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I 
could ; for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who 
can feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknowl- 
edged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, senor, by that 
which I perceive you possess in so high a degree, and likewise 
conjure you by whatever you love or have loved best in life, to 
tell me who you are and the cause that has brought you to live 
or die in these solitudes like a brute beast, dwelling among 
them in a manner so foreign to your condition as your garb 
and appearance show. And I swear,” added Don Quixote, by 
the order of knighthood which I, though unworthy and a 
sinner, have received, and by my vocation of knight-errant, if 
you gratify me in this, to serve you with all the zeal my calling 
demands of me, either in relieving your misfortune if it admits 
of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as I promised to do.” 

The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful 
Countenance talk in this strain, did nothing but stare at him, 
and stare at him again, and again survey him from head to 
foot ; and when he had thoroughly examined him, he said to 
him, If you have anything to give me to eat, for God’s sake 
give it me, and after I have eaten I will do all you ask in 
acknowledgment of the good-will you have displayed towards 
me.” 

Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, 
furnished the Ragged One with the means of appeasing his 
hunger, and what they gave him he ate like a half-witted being, 
so hastily that he took no time between mouthfuls, gorging 
rather than swallowing ; and while he ate neither he nor they 
who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had done he 
made signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led 
them to a green plat which lay' a little farther off around the 
corner of a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon 
the grass, and the others did the same, all keeping silence, until 
the Ragged One, settling himself in his place, said, If it is 
your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the sur- 
passing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to 
break the thread of my sad story with any question or other 
interruption, for the instant you do so the tale I tell will come 
to an end.” 

These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the 


182 


DON QUIXOTE. 


tale his squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of 
the goats that had crossed the river and the story remained un- 
finished ; but to return to the Eagged One, he went on to say, 
I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over 
the story of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only 
serves to add fresh ones, and the less you question me the 
sooner shall I make an end of the recital, though I shall not 
omit to relate anything of importance in order fully to satisfy 
your curiosity/’ 

Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, 
and with this assurance he began as follows : - 

My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this 
Andalusia/ my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so 
great that my ])arents must have wept and my family grieved over 
it without being able by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of 
fortune can do little to relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that 
same country there was a heaven in which love had placed all the 
glory I coula desire ; such w^as the beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as 
noble and as rich as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness 
than was due to so worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, 
worshipped, and adored from my earliest and tenderest years, and 
she loved me in all the innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our 
parents were aware of our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive 
them, for they saw clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last 
to a marriage between us, a thing that seemed almost pre-arranged 
by the equality of our families and wealth. We grew up, and with 
our growth grew the love between us, so that the father of Luscinda 
felt bound for propriety’s sake to refuse me admission to his house, 
in this perhaps imitating the parents of that Thisbe so celebrated by 
the poets, and this refusal but added love to love and flame to flame ; 
for though they enforced silence ujDon our tongues they could not 
impose it upon our pens, which can make known the heart’s secrets 
to a loved one more freely than tongues ; for many a time the pres- 
ence of the object of love shakes the firmest w'ill and strikes dumb 
the boldest tongue. Ah heavens I^how many letters did I write her, 
and how many dainty modest replies did I receive ! how many ditties 
and love-songs did 1 compose in whicli my heart declared and made 
known its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its rec- 

* This indicates that the spot Cervantes had in his eye was somewhere 
above the head of the Despenaperros gorge and commanding a view of 
the valley of the Guadalquivir ; and the scenery there agrees with his de- 
scription. He was, no doubt, familiar with it from having passed through 
it on his journeys between Madrid and Seville in the years between 1587 
and 1598. The broom, mentioned farther on, is very abundant in this 
part of the Sierra Morena. The name of Cardenio, too, was probably 
suggested by Venta de Gardenas, a halting place at the mouth of the 
gorge. ( V. map.) 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


183 


ollections and dallied with its desires ! At length growing impatient 
and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved 
to put into execution and carryout what seemed to me the best mode 
of winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father 
for my lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he 
thanked me for the disposition I showed to do honor to him and to 
regard myself as honored by the bestowal of his treasure ; but that 
as my father was alive it was his by right to make this demand, for 
if it were not in accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda 
was not to be taken or given by stealth. I thanked him lor his kind- 
ness, reflecting that there was reason in what he said, and that my 
father would assent to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that 
view I went the very same instant to let him know what my desires 
were. When I entered the room where he was I found him with an 
open letter in his hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave 
me, saying, “ By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition 
the Duke Ricardo has to serve thee.” This Duke Ricardo, as you, 
sirs, probably know already, is a grandee* of Spain who has his seat 
in the best part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter, which 
was couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt it would 
be wrong in my father not to comply with the request the duke made 
in it, which was that he would send me immediately to him, as he 
wished me to become the companion, not servant, of his eldest son, 
and would take upon himself the charge of placing me in a position 
corresponding to the esteem in which he held me. On reading the 
letter mv voice failed me, and still more when I heard my father say, 
“ Two days hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in accordance with the 
duke’s wish, and give thanks to God who is opening a road to thee 
by which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve ; ” and 
to these words he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for 
my departure arrived ; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all 
that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to allow 
some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I should see 
what the Duke Ricardo sought of me : he gave me the promise, and 
she confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finallv, 1 
presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by liim 
so kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants 
o-rowino- envious of me, and regarding the duke’s inclination to show 
me favoi’ as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my ar- 
rival gave the greatest pleasure was the duke’s second son, Fernando 
by name, a gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous dispo- 
sition, who very soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was 
remarked by everybody ; for though the elder was attached to me, 
and showed me kindness, he did not carry his aftectionate treatment 
to the same length as Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as 
between friends no secret remains unshared, and as the intimacy I 
enjoyed with Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made all 

1 Grande de Espana — one enjoying the privilege of remaining covered 
in the presence of the sovereign. 


184 


DON QUIXOTE. 


his thoughts known to me, and in particular a love affair which 
troubled his mind a little. He was deeply in love with a peasant 
girl, a vassal of his father’s, the daughter of wealthy parents, and 
herself so beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who 
knew her was able to decide in which of these respects she was most 
highly gifted or most excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant 
raised the passion of Don Fernando to such a point that, in order to 
gain his object and overcome her virtuous resolutions, he determined 
to pledge his word to her to become her husband, for to attempt it 
in any other way was to attempt an impossibility. Bound to him as 
I was by friendship, I strove by the best arguments and the most 
forcible examples I could think of to restrain and dissuade him from 
such a course ; but perceiving I produced no effect I resolved to 
make the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted with the matter; but 
Don Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewdy foresaw and appre- 
hended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good servant 1 was 
bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to the honor 
of my lord the duke ; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he told me 
he could find no better way of effacing from his mind the beauty 
that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for some months, 
and that he wished the absence to be effected by our going, both of 
us, to my father’s house under the pretence, which he would make 
to the duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that there were 
in my city, which produces the best in the world. ^ When I heard 
him say so, even if his resolution had not been so good a one I 
should have hailed it as one of the happiest that could be imagined, 
prompted by ray affection, seeing what a favorable chance and op- 
portunity it offered me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this 
thought and wish I commended his idea and encouraged his design, 
advising him to put it into execution as quickly as possible, as, in 
truth, absence produced its effect in spite of the most deeply rooted 
feelings. But, as afterwards appeared, when he said this to me he 
had already enjoyed the peasant girl under the title of husband, and 
was waiting for an opportunity of making it known with safety to 
himself, being in dread of what his father the duke would do when 
he came to know of his folly. It happened, then, that as with young 
men love is for the most part nothing more than appetite, which, as 
its final object is enjoyment, comes to an end on obtaining it, and 
that which seemed to be love takes to fiighi, as it can not pass the 
limit fixed by nature, which fixes no limit to true love — what I 
mean is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed this peasant girl his 
passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, as if at first he feigned a 
wish to absent himself in order to cure his love, he was now in 
reality anxious to to avoid keeping his promise. 

The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him ; 
we arrived at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to 

' Cordova was famed for its horses. 

* This is an example of the clumsy manner in which Cervantes often 
constructed his sentences, beginning them in one way and ending them in 
another. 


CHAPTER XXIV, 


185 


his rank ; I saw Luseinda without delay, and, though it had not been 
dead or deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow 1 told 
the story of it to Don Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the 

f reat friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from 
im. I extolled her beauty, her gayety, her wit, so warmly, that 
my praises excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such 
attractions. To my misfortune I yielded to it, showing her to him 
one night by the light of a taper at a window where we used to talk 
to one another. As she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she 
drove all the beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection ; 
speech failed him, his head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the 
end love-smitten, as you will see in the course of the story of my 
misfortune; and to inflame still further his passion, which he hid 
from me and revealed to Heaven alone, it so happened that one day 
he found a note of hers entreating me to demand her of her father in 
marriage, so delicate, so modest, and so tender, that on reading it 
he told me that in Luseinda alone were combined all the charms of 
beauty and understanding that were distributed among all the other 
women in the world. It is true, and 1 own it now, that though I 
knew what good cause Don Fernando had to praise Luseinda, it gave 
me uneasiness to hear these praises from his mouth, and I began to 
fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him, for there was no moment 
when he was not ready to talk of Luseinda, and he would start the 
subject himself even though he dragged it in unseasonably, a cir- 
cumstance that aroused in me a certain amount of jealousy ; not that 
I feared any change in the constancy or faith of Luseinda ; but still 
my fate led me to forebode what she assured me against. Don 
Fernando contrived always to read the letters I sent to Luseinda 
and her answers to me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the wit 
and sense of both. It so happened, then, that Luseinda having 
begged of me a book of chivalry to read, one that she was very fond 
of, “ Amadis of Gaul” — 

Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, 
than he said, Had your worship told me at the beginning of 
your story that the Lady Luseinda was fond of books of chiv- 
alry, no other laudation would have been requisite to impress 
upon me the superiority of her understanding, for it could not 
have been of the excellence you describe had a taste for such 
delightful reading been wanting ; so, as far as I am concerned, 
you need waste no more words in describing her beauty, 
worth, and intelligence : for, on merely hearing what her taste 
was, I declare her to be the most beautiful and the most intel- 
ligent woman in the world; and I wish your worship had, 
along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Rugel of 
Greece, for I know the Lady Luseinda would greatly relish 
Daraida and Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd 


186 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Darinel, and the admirable verses of his bucolics, sung and 
delivered by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease ; but a 
time may come when this omission can be remedied, and to 
rectify it nothing more is needed than for your worship to be 
so good as to come with me to my village, for there I can give 
you more than three hundred books which are the delight of 
my soul and the entertainment of my life ; — though it occurs 
to me that I have not got one of them now, thanks to the spite 
of wicked and envious enchanters-; — but pardon me for having 
broken the promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; 
for when I hear chivalry or knights-errant mentioned, I can 
no more help talking about them than the rays of the sun can 
help giving heat, or those of the moon moisture ; pardon me, 
therefore, and proceed, for that is more to the purpose now.’^ 
While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his 
head to fall upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep 
thought ; and though twice Don Quixote bade him go on with 
his story, he neither looked up nor uttered a word in reply ; 
but after some time he raised his head and said, ‘‘ I can not get 
rid of the idea, nor will any one in the world remove it, or 
make me think otherwise, — and he would be a blockhead who 
would hold or believe anything else than that that arrant 
knave Master Elisabad made free with Queen Madasima.’^ 

“ That is not true, by all that ’s good,’’ said Don Quixote in 
high wrath, turning upon him angrily, as his way was ; and 
it is a very great slander, or rather villany. Queen Madasima 
was a very illustrious lady, and it is not to be supposed that 
so exalted a princess would have made free with a quack ; and 
whoever maintains the contrary lies like a great scoundrel, 
and I will give him to know it, on foot or on horseback, armed 
or unarmed, by night or by day, or as he likes best.” 

Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit hav- 
ing now come upon him, he had no disposition to go on with 
his story, nor would Don Quixote have listened to it, so much 
had what he had heard about Madasima disgusted him. 
Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she were in earnest 
his veritable born lady ; to such a pass had his unholy books 
brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, 
when he heard himself given the lie, and called a scoundrel 
and other insulting names, not relishing the jest, snatched up 
a stone that he found near him, and with it delivered such a 
blow on Don Quixote’s breast that he laid him on his back. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


187 


Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this fashion, 
attacked the madman with his closed fist; but the Eagged 
One received him in such a way that with a blow of his fist he 
stretched him at his feet, and then mounting upon him 
crushed his ribs to his own satisfaction ; the goatherd, who 
came to the rescue, shared the same fate ; and having beaten 
and pummelled them all he left them and quietly withdrew to 
his hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the 
rage he felt at finding himself so belabored without deserving 
it, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not 
giving them warning that this man was at times taken with a 
mad fit, for if they had known it they would have been on 
their guard to protect themselves. The goatherd replied that 
he had said so, and that if he had not heard him, that it was 
no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd rejoined, 
and the altercation ended in seizing each other by the beard, 
and exchanging such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not 
made peace between them, they would have knocked one 
another to pieces. Leave me alone. Sir Knight of the Eue- 
ful Countenance,’’ said Sancho, grappling with the goatherd, 
for of this fellow, who is a clown like myself, and no dubbed 
knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the affront he has 
offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an honest 
man.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote, ^‘but I know that he is 
not to blame for what has happened.” 

With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if 
it would be possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest 
anxiety to know the end of his story. The goatherd told him, 
as he had told him before, that there was no knowing of a 
certainty where his lair was ; but that if he wandered about 
much in that neighborhood he could not fail to fall in with him 
either in or out of his senses. 


188 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED 
TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA 
MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF 
BELTENEBROS. 

Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more 
mounting Rocinante bade Sancho follow him, which he, having 
no ass, did very discontentedly. They proceeded slowly, mak- 
ing their way into the most rugged part of the mountain, San- 
cho all the while dying to have a talk with his master, and 
longing for him to begin, so that there should be no breach of 
the injunction laid upon him ; but, unable to keep silence so 
long, he said to him, Senor Don Quixote, give me your wor- 
ship’s blessing and dismissal, for I ’d like to go home at once 
to my wife and children, with whom I can at any rate talk and 
converse as much as I like ; for to want me to go through these 
solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I have a 
mind, is burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals 
spoke as they did in the days of Guisopete,^ it would not be so 
bad, because I could talk to Rocinante a]3out whatever came 
into my head, and so put up with my ill-fortune ; but it is a 
hard case, and not to be borne with patience, to go seeking ad- 
ventures all one’s life, and get nothing but kicks and blankei>- 
ings, brickbats and punches, and with all this, to have to sew 
up one’s mouth without daring to say what is in one’s heart, 
just as if one were dumb.” 

I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote ; “ thou 
art dying to have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue re- 
moved ; consider it removed, and say what thou wilt, on condi- 
tion that the removal is not to last longer than while we are 
wandering in these mountains.” 

So be it,” said Sancho ; let me speak now, for God knows 
what will happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the 
permit at once, I ask, what made your worship stand up so for 
that Queen Majimasa, or whatever her name is, or what did it 
matter whether that abbot ^ was a friend of hers or not ? for if 

’ i.e. iEsop. 

* Sancho in his aptitude for blunders takes " Elisabad ” to be the name 
of some abad or abbot. There are three Madasimas mentioned in the 
Amadisy but not one of them is a queen, nor has Master Elisabad any- 


CHAPTER XXV, 


189 


your worship had let that pass — and you were not a judge in 
the matter — it is my belief the madman would have gone on 
with his story, and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more 
than half a dozen cuffs would have been escaped/’ 

In faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, if thou knew- 
est as I do what an honorable and illustrious lady Queen Ma- 
dasima was, I know thou wouldst say I had great patience that 
I did not break in pieces the mouth that uttered such blas- 
phemies, for a very great blasphemy it is to say or imagine that 
a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth of the story 
is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was 
a man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served as 
governor and physician to the queen, but to suppose that she 
was his mistress is nonsense deserving very severe punish- 
ment ; and as a proof that Cardenio did not know what he was 
saying, remember when he said it he was out of his wits.” 

That is what I say,” said Sancho ; there was no occasion 
for minding the words of a madman ; for if good luck had not 
helped your worship, and he had sent that stone at your head 
instead of at your breast, a fine way we should have been in 
for standing up for my lady yonder, God confound her ! And 
then, would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman ? ” 

Against men in their senses or against madmen,” said Don 
Quixote, every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the 
honor of women, whoever they may be, much more for queens 
of such high degree and dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom 
I have a particular regard on account of her amiable qualities ; 
for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very wise, and 
very patient under her misfortunes, of which she had many ; 
and the counsel and society of the Master Elisabad were a 
great help and support to her in enduring her afflictions with 
wisdom and resignation ; hence the ignorant and ill-disposed 
vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his mis- 
tress ; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hun- 
dred times more, all who think and say so.” 

I neither say nor think so,” said Sancho ; “ let them look 
to it ; with their bread let them eat it ; ^ they have rendered 

thing to do with any of them. He was in the service of the lady Gra- 
sinda, and by her orders attended Amadis when wounded. Scott, in the 
article on the Amadis in the Edinburgh Review^ suggests that Cervantes 
must have meant Queen Briolania, apparently confounding her also with 
Grasinda. 

* Prov. 170. This is the first of Sancho’s frequent volleys of random 
proverbs. 


190 


DON QUIXOTE. 


account to God whether they misbehaved or not ; I come from 
my vineyard, I know nothing ; ^ I am not fond of prying into 
other men’s lives ; he who buys and lies feels it in his purse ; ^ 
moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither 
lose nor gain ; ® but if they did, what is that to me ? many 
think there are hitches where there are no hooks ; ^ but who 
can put gates to the open plain ? ® moreover they said of 
God 

God bless me,” said Don Quixote, what a set of absurdi- 
ties thou art stringing together ? What has what we are 
talking about got to do with the proverbs thou art threading 
one after the other ? For God’s sake hold thy tongue, Sancho, 
and henceforward keep to prodding thy ass and don’t meddle 
in what does not concern thee ; and understand with all thy 
five senses that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, 
is well founded on reason and in conformity with the rules of 
chivalry, for I understand them better than all the knights in 
the world that profess them.” 

Senor,” replied Sancho, is it a good rule of chivalry that 
we should go astray through these mountains without path or 
road, looking for a madman who when he is found will per- 
haps take a fancy to finish what he began, not his story, but 
your worship’s head and my ribs, and end by breaking them 
altogether for us ? ” 

Peace, I say again, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ for let 
me tell thee it is not so much the desire of finding that mad- 
man that leads me into these regions as that which I have of 
performing among them an achievement wherewith I shall win 
eternal name and fame throughout the known world ; and it 
shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on all that can 
make a knight-errant perfect and famous.” 

And is it very perilous, this achievement ? ” asked Sancho. 

No,” replied he of the Kueful Countenance ; though it 
may be in the dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of 
sixes ; but all will depend on thy diligence.” 

On my diligence ! ” said Sancho. 

Yes,” said Don Quixote, for if thou dost return soon 
from the place where I mean to send thee, my penance will be 
soon over, and my glory will soon begin. But as it is not 

* Prov. 247. « Prov. 55. 3 Prov. 73. 

^Prov. 226 : estacas — literally, stakes or pegs on which to hang them,' 
expressive of unreasonable expectations. 

* Prov. 195. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


191 


right to keep thee any longer in suspense, waiting to see what 
comes of my words, I would have thee know, Sancho, that the 
famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect knights- 
errant — I am wrong to say he was one ; he stood alone, the 
first, the only one, the lord of all that were in the world in 
his time. A fig for Don Belianis, and for all who say he 
equalled him in any respect, for, my oath upon it, they are de- 
ceiving themselves ! I say, too, that when a painter desires 
to become famous in his art he endeavors to copy the originals 
of the rarest painters that he knows ; and the same rule holds 
good for all the most important crafts and callings that serve 
to adorn a state ; thus will he who would be esteemed prudent 
and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person and labors Homer 
presents to us a lively picture of prudence and patience ; as 
Virgil, too, shows us in the person of ^neas the virtue of a 
pious son and the sagacity of a brave and skilful captain ; not 
representing or describing them as they were, but as they 
ought to be, so as to leave the example of their virtues to pos- 
terity. In the same way Amadis was the pole-star, day-star, 
sun of valiant and devoted knights, whom all we who fight 
under the banner of love and chivalry are bound to imitate. 
This, then, being so, I consider, friend Sancho, that the knight- 
errant who shall imitate him most closely will come nearest to 
reaching the perfection of chivalry. How one of the instances 
in which this knight most conspicuously showed his prudence, 
worth, valor, patience, fortitude, and love, was when he with- 
drew, rejected by the Lady Oriana, to do penance upon the 
Pena Pobre, changing his name into that of Beltenebros,^ a 
name assuredly significant and appropriate to the life which 
he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me to imi- 
tate him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off 
serpents^ heads, slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying 
fleets, and breaking enchantments, and as this place is so well 
suited for a similar purpose, I must not allow the opportunity 
to escape which now so conveniently offers me its forelock.” 

^^What is it in reality,” said Sancho, ^^that your Avorship 
means to do in such an out-of-the-way place as this ? ” 

^‘Have I not told thee,” answered Don Quixote, ^^that I 

* BeltenehroSy i.e. "fair-obscure.” Clemencin suggests that the Pena 
Pobre (so called because those who sojourned there had to live in extreme 
poverty) was Mont St. Michel, but Jersey would suit the description bet- 
ter, as it is said to be seven leagues from the coast of the Insula Firme, 
which was clearly the mainland of Brittany or Normandy. 


192 


DON QUIXOTE. 


mean to imitate Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, 
the madman, the maniac, so as at the same time to imitate 
the valiant Roland, when at the fountain he had evidence 
of the fair Angelica having disgraced herself with Medoro and 
through grief thereat went mad, and plucked up trees, troubled 
the waters of the clear springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, 
burned down huts, levelled houses, dragged mares after him, 
and perpetrated a hundred thousand other outrages worthy of 
everlasting renown and record ? And though I have no inten- 
tion of imitating Roland, or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he went 
by all these names), step by step in all the mad things he did, 
said, and thought, I will make a rough copy to the best of my 
power of all that seems to me most essential ; but perhaps I 
shall content myself with the simple imitation of Amadis, who, 
without giving way to any mischievous madness but merely to 
tears and sorrow, gained as much fame as the most famous.’’ 

“ It seems to me,” said Sancho, “ that the knights who be- 
haved in this way had provocation and cause for those follies 
and penances ; but what cause has your worship for going mad ? 
What lady has rejected you, or what evidence have you found 
to prove that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been trifling 
with Moor or Christian ? ” 

There is the point,” replied Don Quixote, and that is the 
beauty of this business of mine ; no thanks to a knight-errant 
for going mad when he has a cause ; the thing is to turn crazy 
without any provocation, and to let my lady know, if I do this 
in the dry, what I would do in the moist ; ^ moreover I have 
abundant cause in the long separation I have endured from my 
lady till death, Dulcinea del Toboso ; for as thou didst hear 
that shepherd Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all ills 
are felt and feared ; and so, friend Sancho, waste no time in 
advising me against so rare, so happy, and so unheard-of an 
imitation ; mad I am, and mad I must be until thou returnest 
with the answer to a letter that I mean to send by thee to my 
lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my constancy deserves, 
my insanity and penance will come to an end ; and if it be to 
the opposite effect, I shall become mad in earnest, and, being 
so, I shall suffer no more; thus in whatever way she may 
answer I shall escape from the struggle and affliction in which 
thou wilt leave me, enjoying in my senses the boon thou bearest 
me, or as a madman not feeling the evil thou bringest me. 

* Probably an allusion to the " green tree ” and the dry.” 


CHAPTER XXV, 


19b 


But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got Mambrino’s helmet safe ; 
for I saw thee take it up from the ground when that wretch 
tried to break it in pieces but could not, by which the fineness 
of its temper may be seen ? 

To which Sancho made answer, By the living God, Sir 
Knight of the Eueful Countenance, I cannot endure or bear 
with patience some of the things that your worship says ; and 
from them I begin to suspect that all you tell me about chivalry, 
and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving islands, and be- 
stowing other rewards and dignities after the custom of knights- 
errant, must be all made up of wind and lies, and all pigments 
or figments, or whatever we may call them ; for what would 
any one think that heard your worship calling a barber’s basin 
Mambrino’s helmet without ever seeing the mistake all this 
time,^ but that one who says and maintains such things must 
have his brains addled? I have the basin in my sack all 
dinted, and I am taking it home to have it mended, to trim my 
beard in it, if, by God’s grace, I am allowed to see my wife and 
children some day or other.” 

Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, by him thou didst 
swear by just now I swear thou hast the most limited under- 
standing that any squire in the world has or ever had. Is it 
possible that all this time thou hast been going about with me 
thou hast never found out that all things belonging to knights- 
errant seem to be illusions and nonsense and ravings, and to go 
always by contraries ? And not because it really is so, but be- 
cause there is always a swarm of enchanters in attendance upon 
us that change and alter everything with us, and turn things 
as they please, and according as they are disposed to aid or de- 
stroy us ; thus what seems to thee a barber’s basin seems to me 
Mambrino’s helmet, and to another it will seem something else ; 
and rare foresight it was in the sage who is on my side to make 
what is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet seem a basin to 
everybody, for, being held in such estimation as it is, all the 
world would pursue me to rob me of it ; but when they see it 
is only a barber’s basin they do not take the trouble to obtain 
it ; as was plainly shown by him who tried to break it, and left 

^ In the original it is " for more than four days,” to which some com- 
mentators, Hartzenbusch among them, object, as not more than one day 
had passed since the encounter with the barber. But '' more than four ” 
is a very common phrase to express indefinitely a considerable number, 
and it is more probably used here vaguely by Sancho in the sense in whicr 
I have rendered it. 

VOL. I. — 13 


194 


DON QUIXOTE. 


it on the ground without taking it, for, by my faith, had he 
known it he would never have left it behind. Keep it safe, my 
friend, for just now I have no need of it ; indeed, I shall have 
to take off all this armor and remain as naked as I was born, 
if I have a mind to follow Roland rather than Amadis in my 
penance.’’ ^ 

Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which 
stood like an isolated peak among the others that surrounded 
it. Past its base there flowed a gentle brook, all around it 
spread a meadow so green and luxuriant that it was a delight 
to the eyes to look upon it, and forest trees in abundance, and 
shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the spot. Upon 
this place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance flxed his 
choice for the performance of his penance, and as he beheld 
it exclaimed in a loud voice as though he were out of his 
senses, This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and 
choose for bewailing the misfortune in which ye yourselves 
have plunged me : this is the spot where the overflowings of 
mine eyes shall swell the waters of yon little brook, and my 
deep and endless sighs shall stir unceasingly the leaves of 
these mountain trees, in testimony and token of the pain my 
persecuted heart is suffering. Oh, ye, rural deities, whoever 
ye be that haunt this lone spot, give ear to the complaint of a 
wretched lover whom long absence and brooding jealousy have 
driven to bewail his fate among these wilds and complain of 
the hard heart of that fair and ungrateful one, the end and 
limit of all human beauty ! Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, 
that dwell in the thickets of the forest, so may the nimble 
wanton satyrs by whom ye are vainly wooed never disturb 
your sweet repose, help me to lament my hard fate or at least 
weary not at listening to it ! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of 
my night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of my 
fortune, so may Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of 
it, bethink thee of the place and condition to which absence 
from thee has brought me, and make that return in kindness 
that is due to my fldelity ! Oh, lonely trees, that from this 
day forward shall bear me company in my solitude, give me 
some sign by the gentle movement of your boughs that my 
presence is not distasteful to you ! Oh, thou, my squire, 
pleasant companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes, 

* For the character of Orlando’s insanity, see the Orlando Furioso. 
canto xxiii. st. 130 et seq. 


CHAPTER XXV, 


195 


fix well in thy memory what thou shalt see me do here, so 
that thou mayest relate and report it to the sole cause of all,^’ 
and so saying he dismounted from Kocinante, and in an instant 
relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on 
the croup, said, He gives thee freedom who is bereft of it 
himself, oh steed as excellent in deed as thou art unfortunate 
in thy lot ; begone where thou wilt, for thou bearest written 
on thy forehead that neither Astolfo’s hippogriff, nor the 
famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear, could equal 
thee in speed.’’ ^ 

Seeing this Sancho said, Good luck to him who has saved 
us the trouble of stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple ! By 
my faith he would not have gone without a slap on the croup 
and something said in his praise ; though if he were here I 
would not let any one strip him, for there would be no occa- 
sion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of despair about 
him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was God’s 
pleasure, was nothing of the sort ; and indeed. Sir Knight of 
the Bueful Countenance, if my departure and your worship’s 
madness are to come off in earnest, it will be as well to saddle 
Rocinante again in order that he may supply the want of 
Dapple, because it will save me time in going and returning ; 
for if I go on foot I don’t know when I shall get there or 
when I shall get back, as I am, in truth, a bad walker.” 

i declare, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “ it shall be as 
thou wilt, for thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and 
three days hence thou wilt depart, for I wish thee to observe 
in the mean time what I do and say for her sake, that thou 
mayest be able to tell it.” 

But what more have I to see besides what I have seen ? ” 
said Sancho. 

Much thou knowest about it ! ” said Don Quixote. I have 
now got to tear up my garments, to scatter about my armor, 
knock my head against these rocks, and more of the same sort 
of thing, which thou must witness.” 

For the love of God,” said Sancho, “ be careful, your wor- 
ship, how you give yourself those knocks on the head, for you 
may come across such a rock, and in such a way, that the very 
first may put an end to the whole contrivance of this penance ; . 

^ Tlie hippogriff was the winged horse on which Astolfo went in quest 
of information about Orlando. Frontino was the name of the destroyer 
of Ruggiero, Bradamante’s lover. 


196 


DON QUIXOTE, 


and I should think, if indeed knocks on the head seem necessary 
to you, and this business can not be done without them, you 
might be content — as the whole thing is feigned, and counter- 
feit, and in joke — you might be content, I say, with giving 
them to yourself in the water, or against something soft, like 
cotton ; and leave it all to me ; for I ’ll tell my lady that your 
worship knocked your head against a point of rock harder than 
a diamond.” 

I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,” 
answered Don Quixote, but I would have thee know that all 
these things I am doing are not in joke, but very much in ear- 
nest, for anything else would be a transgression of the ordi- 
nances of chivalry, which forbid us to tell any lie whatever 
under the penalties due to apostasy ; and to do one thing instead 
of another is just the same as lying ; so my knocks on the head 
must be real, solid, and valid, without anything sophisticated 
or fanciful about them, and it will be needful to leave me some 
lint to dress my wounds, since fortune has compelled us to do 
without the balsam we lost.” 

“ It was worse losing the ass,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ for with him 
lint and all were lost ; but I beg of your worship not to remind 
me again of that accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my 
stomach, turns at hearing the very name of it ; and I beg of you, 
too, to reckon as past the three days you allowed me for seeing 
the mad things you do, for I take them as seen already and pro- 
nounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories to my lady ; so 
write the letter and send me off at once, for I long to return 
and take your worship out of this purgatory where I am leaving 
you.” 

(( Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho ? ” said Don Quixote, 
rather call it hell, or even worse if there be anything worse.” 

“ For one who is in hell,” said Sancho, nulla est retentio, as 
I have heard say.” 

‘‘ I do not understand what retentio means,” said Don Qui- 
xote. 

Retentio , answered Sancho, means that whoever is in hell 
never comes nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite 
case with your worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have 
spurs to enliven Kocinante let me once get to El Toboso and 
into the presence of my lady Dulcinea, and I will tell her such 
things of the follies and madnesses, (for it is all one) that your 
worship has done and is still doing, that I will manage to make 


CHAPTER XXV, 


197 


her softer than a glove though I find her harder than a corh 
tree ; and with her sweet and honeyed answer I will come back 
through the air like a witch, and take your worship out of this 
purgatory that seems to be hell but is not, as there is hope of 
getting out of it ; which, as I have said, those in hell have not, 
and I believe your worship will not say anything to the contrary.” 

That is true,” said he of the Rueful Countenance, but how 
shall we manage to write the letter ? ” 

“ And the ass-colt order too,” added Sancho. 

All shall be included,” said Don Quixote ; and as there is 
no paper, it would be well done to write it on the leaves of 
trees, as the ancients did, or on tablets of wax ; though that 
would be as hard to find just now as paper. But it has just 
occurred to me how it may be conveniently and even more than 
conveniently written, and that is in the note-book that belonged 
to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have it copied on paper, 
in a good hand, at the first village thou comest to where there 
is a schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will copy it ; but see 
thou give it not to any notary to copy, for they write a law hand 
that Satan could not make out.” 

“ But what is to be done about the signature ? ” said Sancho. 

The letters of Amadis were never signed,” said Don Quixote. 

That is all very well,” said Sancho, but the order must 
needs be signed, and if it is copied they will say the signature 
is false, and I shall be left without ass-colts.” 

The order shall go signed in the same book,” said Don 
Quixote, and on seeing it my niece will make no dilficulty 
about obeying it ; as to the love-letter thou canst put by way of 
signature, ^ Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Couu' 
tenance’ And it will be no great matter if it is in some other 
person’s hand, for as well as I recollect Dulcinea can neither 
read nor write, nor in the whole course of her life has she seen 
handwriting or letter of mine, for my love and hers have been 
always platonic, not going beyond a modest look, and even that 
so seldom that I can safely swear I have not seen her four times 
in all these twelve years I have been loving her more than the 
light of these eyes that the earth will one day devour ; and per- 
haps even of those four times she has not once perceived that 
I was looking at her : such is the retirement and seclusion in 
which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza 
Nogales have brought her up.” 

So, so ! ” said Sancho ; Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter Ig 


198 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza 
Lorenzo ? 

“ She it is/’ said Don Quixote, and she it is that is worthy 
to be lady of the universe.” 

‘‘ I know her well,” said Sancho, and let me tell you she 
can fling a crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. 
Giver of all good ! but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout 
one, and fit to be helpmate to any knight-errant that is or is to 
be, who may make her his lady : the whoreson wench, what 
pith she has and what a voice ! I can tell you one day she 
posted herself on the top of the belfry of the village to call 
some laborers of theirs that were in a ploughed field of her 
father’s, and though they were better than half a league off 
they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the tower ; 
and the best of her is that she is not a bit prudish, for she has 
plenty of affability, and jokes with everybody, and has a grin 
and a jest for everything. So, Sir Knight of the Kueful 
Countenance, I say you not only may and ought to do mad 
freaks for her sake, but you have a good right to give way to 
despair and hang yourself ; and no one who knows of it but 
will say you did well, though the devil should take you ; and I 
wish I were on my road already, simply to see her, for it is 
many a day since I saw her, and she must be altered by this 
time, for going about the fields always, and the sun and the 
air spoil women’s looks greatly. But I must own the truth to 
your worship, Senor Don Quixote ; until now I have been under 
a great mistake, for I believed truly and honestly that the lady 
Dulcinea must be some princess your worship was in love with, 
or some person great enough to deserve the rich presents you 
have sent her, such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and 
many more no doubt, for your worship must have won many 
victories in the time when I was not yet your squire. But all 
things considered, what good can it do the lady Aldonza Lorenzo 
(I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso) to have the vanquished 
your worship sends or will send coming to her and going down 
on their knees before her ? Because maybe when they came 
she ’d be hackling flax or threshing on the threshing floor,^ and 
they ’d be ashamed to see her, and she ’d laugh, or resent the 
present.” 

* Corn in Spain is not threshed, as we understand the word, but sep- 
arated from the ear by means of the trilla^ a sort of toothless harrow, which 
is dragged over it as it lies on the era or threshing floor « 


CHAPTER XXV. 


199 


“ I have before now told thee many times, Sancho,’’ said Don 
Quixote, that thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with 
a blunt wit thou art always striving at sharpness ; but to show 
thee what a fool thou art and how rational I am, I would have 
thee listen to a short story. Thou must know that a certain 
widow, fair, young, independent, and rich, and above all free 
and easy, fell in love with a sturdy strapping young lay- 
brother ; his superior came to know of it, and one day said to 
the worthy widow by way of brotherly remonstrance, < I am 
surprised, senora, and not without good reason, that a woman 
of such high standing, so fair, and so rich as you are, should 
have fallen in love with such a mean, low, stupid fellow as So- 
and-so, when.in this house there are so many masters, graduates 
and divinity students from among whom you might choose as 
if they were a lot of pears, saying. This one I hi take, that I 
won’t take ; ’ but she replied to him with great sprightliness 
and candor, ^ My dear sir, you are very much mistaken, and 
your ideas are very old-fashioned, if you think that I have 
made a bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he seems ; because for 
all I want with him he knows as much and more philosophy 
than Aristotle.’ In the same way, Sancho, for all I want with 
Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as good as the most exalted 
princess on earth. It is not to be supposed that all those poets 
who sang the praises of ladies under the fancy names they give 
them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the 
Amaryllises, the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Gala- 
teas,^ the Pilidas, and all the rest of them, that the books, the 
ballads, the barbers’ shops, the theatres are full of, were really 
and truly ladies of flesh and blood, and mistresses of those that 
glorify and have glorified them ? Nothing of the kind ; they 
only invent them for the most part to furnish a subject for 
their verses, and that they may pass for lovers, or for men who 
have some pretensions to be so ; and so it is enough for me to 
think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and 
virtuous ; and as to her pedigree it is very little matter, for no 
one will examine into it for the purpose of conferring any order 

* The introduction here of the name of his own heroine, Galatea, may 
be taken for what it is worth as a contradiction of the story that by 
Galatea he meant the mother of his daughter Isabel. An ingenious specu- 
lator might suggest that his object was to soothe the susceptibilities of his 
wife Doha Catalina, but it is clear that there were no heartburnings on 
that score in the household of Cervantes. 


200 


DON QUIXOTE. 


upon her,^ and I, for my part, reckon her the most exalted 
princess in the world. For thou shouldst know, Sancho, if thou 
dost not know, that two things alone beyond all others are in- 
centives to love, and these are great beauty and a good name, 
and these two things are to be found in Dulcinea in the highest 
degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in good name few 
approach her ; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I per- 
suade myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, 
and I picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, 
as well in beauty as in condition ; Helen approaches her not 
nor does Lucretia come up to her, nor any other of the famous 
women of times past, Greek, Barbarian, or Latin ; and let each 
say what he will, for if in this I am taken to task by the igno- 
rant, I shall not be censured by the critical.’^ 

“I say that your worship is entirely right,’’ said Sancho, 
and that I am an ass. But I know not how the name of ass 
came into my mouth, for a rope is not to be mentioned in the 
house of him who has been hanged; ^ but now for the letter, 
and then, God be with you, I am off.” 

Don Quixote took out the note-book, and, retiring to one side, 
very deliberately began to write the letter, and when he had 
finished it he called to Sancho, saying he wished to read it to 
him, so that he might commit it to memory, in case of losing it 
on the road ; for with evil fortune like his anything might be 
apprehended. To which Sancho replied, “ Write it two or three 
times there in the book and give it to me, and I will carry it 
very carefully, because to expect me to keep it in my memory 
is all nonsense, for I have such a bad one that I often forget 
my own name ; but for all that repeat it to me, as I shall like 
to hear it, for surely it will run as if it was in print.” 

“ Listen,” said Don Quixote, “ this is what it says : 

“ Don Quixote's Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso. 

“ Sovereign and Exalted Lady, — The pierced by the point of 
absence, the wounded to the heart’s core, sends thee, sweetest Dul- 
cinea del Toboso, the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy 
beauty despises me, if thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is iny 
affliction, though I be sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I en- 
dure this anxiety, which, besides being oppressive, is protracted. 
My good Squire Sancho will relate to tn^ee in full, fair ingrate, dear 

^ Proof of hidalguia was necessary before some orders, that of Santiago 
for instance, could be conferred. 

2Prov. 219. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


201 


enemy, the condition to which I am reduced on thy account ; if it be 
thy pleasure to give me relief, I am thine ; if not, do as may be 
pleasing to thee ; for by ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty and 
my desire. 

“ Thine till death, 

“The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” 

By the life of my father,” said Sancho, when he heard the 
letter, it is the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me ! how 
your worship says everything as you like in it ! And how well 
you fit in ^ The Knight of the Rueful Countenance ^ into the 
signature. I declare your worship is indeed the very devil, 
and there is nothing you don’t know.” 

Everything is needed for the calling I follow,” said Don 
Quixote. 

“ Now then,” said Sancho, let your worship put the order 
for the three ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, 
that they may recognize it at first sight.” 

“With all my heart,” said Don Quixote, and as soon as he 
had written it he read it to this effect : 

“ Mistress Niece, — By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho 
Panza, my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge : 
said three ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number re- 
ceived here in hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be 
duly paid. Done in the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty- 
seventh of August of this present year.” 

“ That will do,” said Sancho ; “ now let your worship sign 
it.” 

“ There is no need to sign it,” said Don Quixote, “ but merely 
to put my flourish,^ which is the same as a signature, and 
enough for three asses, or even three hundred.” 

“ I can trust your worship,” returned Sancho ; “ let me go 
and saddle Rocinante, and be ready to give me your blessing, 
for I mean to go at once without seeing the fooleries your 
worship is going to do ; I ’ll say I saw you do so many that 
she will not want any more.” 

“ At any rate, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ I should like — 
and there is reason for it — I should like thee, I say, to see 
me stripped to the skin and performing a dozen or two of in- 
sanities, which I can get done in less than half an hour ; for 

* The ruhricay or flourish, which is always a part of a Spanish signa- 
ture. 


202 


DON QUIXOTE. 


having seen them with thine own eyes, thou canst then safely 
swear to the rest that thou wouldst add ; and I promise thee 
thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform.” 

“ For the love of God, master mine,” said Sancho, let me 
not see your worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and 
I shall not be able to keep from tears, and my head aches so 
with all I shed last night for Dapple, that I am not fit to begin 
any fresh weeping ; but if it is your worship’s pleasure that I 
should see some insanities, do them in your clothes, short ones, 
and such as come readiest to hand ; for I myself want nothing 
of the sort, and, as I have said, it will be a saving of time for 
my return, which w'ill be with the news your worship desires 
and deserves. If not, let the lady Dulcinea look to it ; if she 
does not answer reasonably, I swear as solemnly as I can that 
I will fetch a fair answer out of her stomach with kicks and 
cuffs ; for why should it be borne that a knight-errant as 
famous as your worship should go mad without rhyme or 
reason for a — ? her ladyship had best not drive me to say it, 
for by God I will speak out and have done with it, though it 
stop the sale : I am pretty good at that ! she little knows me ; 
faith, if she knew me she ’d be afraid of me.” 

“ In faith, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, to all appearance 
thou art not sounder in thy wits than I am.” 

I am not so mad,” answered Sancho, but I am more 
peppery ; but apart from all this, what has your worship to eat 
until I come back ? Will you sally out on the road like Car- 
denio to force it from the shepherds ? ” 

Let not that anxiety trouble thee,” replied Don Quixote, 
“ for even if I had it I should not eat anything but the herbs 
and the fruits which this meadow and these trees may yield 
me ; the beauty of this business of mine lies in not eating, and 
in performing other mortifications.” 

“ Do you know what I am afraid of ? ” said Sancho upon 
this ; “ that I shall not be able to find my way back to this 
spot where I am leaving you, it is such an out-of-the-way place.” 

Observe the landmarks well,” said Don Quixote, “ for I will 
try not to go far from this neighborhood, and I will even take 
care to mount the highest of these rocks to see if I can dis- 
cover thee returning ; however, not to miss me and lose thyself, 
the best plan will be to cut some branches of the broom that 
is so abundant about here, and as thou goest to lay them at 
intervals until thou hast come out upon thQ.plain ; these will 


CHAPTER XXVI . 


203 


serve thee, after the fashion of the clew in the labyrinth of 
Theseus, as marks and signs for finding me on thy return.” 

So I will,” said Sancho Panza, and having cut some, he 
asked his master’s blessing, and not without many tears on both 
sides took his leave of him, and mounting Pocinante, of whom 
Don Quixote charged him earnestly to have as much care as 
of his own person, he set out for the plain, strewing at intervals 
the branches of broom as his master had recommended him ; 
and so he went his way, though Don Quixote still entreated 
him to see him do were it only a couple of mad acts. He had 
not gone a hundred paces, however, when he returned and said, 

I must say, senor, your worship said quite right, that in order 
to be able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I 
had seen you do mad things, it would be well for me to see if 
it were only one ; though in your worship’s remaining here I 
have seen a very great one.” 

“ Did I not tell thee so ? ” said Don Quixote. Wait, Sancho, 
and I will do them in the saying of a credo,” and pulling off 
his breeches in all haste he stripped himself to his skin and 
his shirt, and then, without more ado, he cut a couple of gam- 
bados ^ in the air, and a couple of somersaults, heels over head, 
making such a display that, not to see it a second time, Sancho 
wheeled Eocinante round, and felt easy, and satisfied in his 
mind that he could swear he had left his master mad ; and so 
we will leave him to follow his road until his return, which was 
a quick one. 


CHAPTEE XXVI. 

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH 
DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE 
SIERRA MORENA. 

Eeturning to the proceedings of him of the Eueful Coun- 
tenance when he found himself alone, the history says that 
when Don Quixote had completed the performance of the som- 
ersaults or capers, naked from the waist down and clothed from 
the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone off without wait- 
ing to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to the top of a 

^ Zapatetas^ capers in which the sole of the shoe is struck with the 
hand. 


204 


DON QUIXOTE. 


high rock, and there set himself to consider what he had sev- 
eral times before considered without ever coming to any con- 
clusion on the point, namely, whether it would be better and 
more to his purpose to imitate the outrageous madness of Koland, 
or the melancholy madness of Amadis ; and communing with 
himself he said, What wonder is it if Eoland was so good a 
knight and so valiant as every one says he was, when, after all, 
he was enchanted, and nobody could kill him save by thrusting a 
corking pin ^ into the sole of his foot, and he always wore shoes 
with seven iron soles ? Though cunning devices did not avail 
him against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew all about them, and 
strangled him in his arms at Eoncesvalles. But putting the 
question of his valor aside, let us come to his losing his wits, 
for certain it is that he did lose them in consequence of the 
proofs he discovered at the fountain, and the intelligence the 
shepherd gave him of Angelica having slept more than two 
afternoons with Medoro, a little curly-headed Moor, and page 
to Agramante.^ If he was persuaded that this was true, and 
that his lady had wronged him, it is no wonder that he should 
have gone mad ; but I, how am I to imitate him in his madness, 
unless I can imitate him in the cause of it ? For my Dulcinea, 
I will venture to swear, never saw a Moor, as he is in his proper 
costume, in her life, and is this day as the mother that bore her, 
and I should plainly be doing her a wrong if, fancying any- 
thing else, I were to go mad with the same kind of madness 
as ^ Eoland the Furious/ On the other hand, I see that Ama- 
dis of Gaul, without losing his senses and without doing any- 
thing mad, acquired as a lover as much fame as the most fa- 
mous ; for, according to his history, on finding himself rejected 
by his lady Oriana, who had ordered him not to appear in her 
presence until it should be her pleasure, all he did was to retire 

'Properly a " hlanca pin,” i.e., of the size sold for a blanea, or half a 
maravedi, as we say a " tenpenny nail.” Viardot, strangely misinterpret- 
ing the very common idiom de d, indicating the price of an article, and 
fancying the d to have a negative power as in Greek, explains it as " a pin 
made of some substance not white.” 

* " Occhi avea neri, e chioma crespa d’oro : 

Angel parea di quei del sommo coro.” 

Orlando Furioso^ c. xviii. st. 166. 

But Medoro was not in the service of Agramante, but in that of Dardi- 
nel ; and a little higher up Cervantes has made another slip of memory, 
for it was not Orlando, but Ferrau who wore the 

sette piastre fatte a buone tempre.” 

Orlando Furioso.^ c. xii, st. 48. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


205 


to the Pena Pobre in company with a hermit, and there he took 
his fill of weeping until Heaven sent him relief in the midst of 
his great grief and need. And if this be true, as it is, why 
should I now take the trouble to strip stark naked, or do mis- 
chief to these trees which have done me no harm, or why am I 
to disturb the clear waters of these brooks which will give me 
to drink whenever I have a mind ? Long live the memory of 
Amadis, and let him be imitated so far as is possible by Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, of whom it will be said, as was said of 
the other, that if he did not achieve great things, he died in at- 
tempting them ; and if I am not repulsed or rejected by my Dul- 
cinea, it is enough for me, as I have said, to be absent from her. 
And so, now to business ; come to my memory ye deeds of Ama- 
dis, and show me how I am to begin to imitate you. I know 
already that what he chiefly did was to pray and commend him- 
self to God ; but what am I to do for a rosary, for I have not 
got one ? And then it occurred to him how he might make 
one, and that was by tearing a great strip off the tail of his 
shirt which hung down, and making eleven knots on it, one 
bigger than the rest, and this served him for a rosary all the 
time he was there, during which he repeated countless ave- 
marias.^ But what distressed him greatly was not having 
another hermit there to confess him and receive consolation 
from ; and so he solaced himself with pacing up and down the 
little meadow, and writing and carving on the bark of the trees 
and on the fine sand a multitude of verses all in harmony with 
his sadness, and some in praise of Dulcinea ; but, when he was 
found there afterwards, the only ones completely legible that 
could be discovered were those that follow here : 

Ye on the mountain side that grow. 

Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes, 

Are ye aweary of the woe 

That this poor aching bosom crushes ? 

If it disturb you, and I owe 
Some reparation, it may be a 
Defence for me to let you know 
Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, 

And all for distant Dulcinea 
Del Toboso. 

* It is thus the passage stands in the first edition. In the second Don 
Quixote makes his rosary with oak galls off a cork tree. The alteration 
was made, no doubt, at the suggestion of some critics who thought the 
passage indecorous, but Cervantes had nothing to do with it. 


206 


DON QUIXOTE. 


The lealest lover time can show, 

Doomed for a lady-love to languish, 

Among these solitudes doth go, 

A prey to every kind of anguish. 

Why Love should like a spiteful foe 
Thus use him, he hath no idea. 

But hogsheads full — this doth he know — » 

Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, 

And all for distant Dulcinea 
Del Toboso. 

Adventure-seeking doth he go 

Up ragged heights, down rocky valleys, 

But hill or dale, or high or low. 

Mishap attendeth all his sallies : 

Love still pursues him to and fro. 

And plies his cruel scourge — ah me ! a 
Relentless fate, an endless woe ; 

Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, 

And all for distant Dulcinea 

Del Toboso.^ 

The addition of Del Toboso ” to Dulcinea’s name gave 
rise to no little laughter among those who found the above 
lines, for they suspected Don Quixote must have fancied that 
unless he added del Toboso ” when he introduced the name of 
Dulcinea the verse would be unintelligible ; which was indeed 
the fact, as he himself afterwards admitted. He wrote many 
more, but, as has been said, these three verses were all that 
could be plainly and perfectly deciphered. In this way, and 
in sighing and calling on the fauns and satyrs of the woods 
and the nymphs of the streams, and Echo, moist and mournful, 
to answer, console, ajid hear him, as well as in looking for 
herbs to sustain him, he passed his time until Sancho’s return ; 
and had that been delayed three weeks, as it was three days, 
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance would have worn such 
an altered countenance that the mother that bore him would 

* In its ingenuity of rhyme and versification and its transcendent ab- 
surdity this is the best piece of humorous verse in Don Quixote. Even 
Clemencin, who generally grumbles at the verses of Cervantes, can not 
help giving it a word of praise. It is, of course, impossible in English 
translation to do more than suggest the character of the original, for any- 
thing like close imitation is unattainable. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


207 


not have known him : and here it will be well to leave him, 
wrapped up in sighs and verses, to relate how Sancho Panza 
fared on his mission. 

As for him, coming out upon the high road, he made for El 
Toboso, and the next day reached the inn where the mishap of 
the blanket had befallen him. As soon as he recognized it he 
felt as if he were once more flying through the air, and he 
could not bring himself to enter it though it was an hour when 
he might well have done so, for it was dinner-time, and he 
longed to taste something hot as it had been all cold fare with 
him for many days past. This craving drove him to draw 
near to the inn, still undecided whether to go in or not, and as 
he was hesitating there came out two persons who at once 
recognized him, and said one to the other, “ Senor licentiate, 
is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who, our advent- 
urer’s housekeeper told us, went off with her master as 
esquire ? ” 

So it is,” said the licentiate, “ and that is our friend Don 
Quixote’s horse ; ” and if they knew him so well it was be- 
cause they were the curate and the barber of his own village, 
the same who had carried out the scrutiny and sentence upon 
the books ; and as soon as they recognized Sancho Panza and 
Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don Quixote, they ap- 
proached, and calling him by his name the curate said. 
Friend Sancho Panza, where is your master ? ” 

Sancho recognized them at once, and determined to kee^) 
secret the place and circumstances where and under which he 
had left his master, so he replied that his master was engaged 
in a certain quarter on a certain matter of great importance to 
him which he could not disclose for the eyes in his head. 

“ Nay, nay,” said the barber, if you don’t tell us where he 
is, Sancho Panza, we will suspect, as we suspect already, that 
you have murdered and robbed him, for here you are mounted 
on his horse; in fact, you must produce the master of the 
hack, or else take the consequences.” 

There is no need of threats with me,” said Sancho, for I 
am not a man to rob or murder anybody ; let his own fate, or 
God who made him, kill each one ; my master is engaged very 
much to his taste doing penance in the midst of these moun- 
tains ; ” and then, offhand and without stopping, he told them 
how he had left him, what adventures had befallen him, and 
how he was carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, 


208 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom he was t^^er 
head and ears in love.^ They were both amazed at what 
Sancho Panza told them ; for though they were aware of Don 
Quixote’s madness and the nature of it, each time they heard 
of it they were filled with fresh wonder. They then asked 
Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was carrying to the 
lady Dulcinea del Toboso. He said it was written in a note- 
book, and that his master’s directions were that he should 
have it copied on paper at the first village he came to. On 
this the curate said if he showed it to him, he himself would 
make a fair copy of it. Sancho put his hand into his bosom 
in search of the note-book but could not find it, nor, if he had 
been searching until now, could he have found it, for Don 
Quixote had kept it, and had never given it to him, nor had 
he himself thought of asking for it. When Sancho discovered 
he could not find the book his face grew deadly pale, and in 
great haste he again felt his body all over, and seeing plainly 
it was not to be found, without more ado he seized his beard 
with both hands and plucked away half of it, and then, as 
quick as he could and without stopping, gave himself half 
a dozen cuffs on the face and nose till they were bathed in 
blood. 

Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what had 
happened him that he gave himself such rough treatment. 

What should happen me ? ” replied Sancho, but to have 
lost from one hand to the other, in a moment, three ass-colts, 
each of them like a castle ? ” 

How is that ? ” said the barber. 

I have lost the note-book,” said Sancho, that contained 
the letter to Dulcinea, and an order signed by my master in 
which he directed his niece to give me three ass-colts out of 
four or five he had at home ; ” and he then told them about 
the loss of Dapple. 

The curate consoled him, telling him that when his master 
was found he would get him to renew the order, and make a 
fresh draft on paper, as was usual and customary ; for those 
made in note-books were never accepted or honored. 

Sancho comforted himself with this, and said if that were 
so the loss of Dulcinea’ s letter did not trouble him much, for 
he had it almost by heart, and it could be taken down from 
him wherever and whenever they liked. 

^'The Spanish phrase is stronger — hasta los higados — "down to the 
fiver.” 


CHAPTER XXV I . 


209 


Repeat it then, Sancho,’’ said the barber, and we will 
write it down afterwards.” 

Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the 
letter to his memory, and balanced himself now on one foot, 
'\iow the other, one moment staring at the ground, the next at 
Ihe sky, and after having half gnawed off the end of a finger 
and kept them in suspense waiting for him to begin, he said, 
after a long pause, By God, senor licentiate, devil a thing 
can I recollect of the letter; but it said at the beginning, 
^ Exalted and scrubbing Lady.^ ” 

It cannot have said ^ scrubbing,’ said the barber, but 
^ superhuman ’ or sovereign.’ ” 

That is it,” said Sancho ; then, as well as I remember, it 
went on, ^ The wounded, and wanting of sleep, and the pierced, 
kisses your worship’s hands, ungrateful and very unrecognized 
fair one ; ’ and it said something or other about health and 
sickness that he was sending her and from that it went tail- 
ing off until it ended with ^ Yours till death, the Knight of the 
Rueful Countenance.’ ” 

It gave them no little amusement, both of them, to see what 
a good memory Sancho had, and they complimented him greatly 
upon it, arid begged him to repeat the letter a couple of times 
more, so that they too might get it by heart to write it out by- 
and-by. Sancho repeated it three times, and as he did, uttered 
three thousand more absurdities ; then he told them more 
about his master ; but he never said a word about the blanket- 
ing that had befallen himself in that inn, into which he refused 
to enter. He told them> moreover, how his lord, if he brought 
him a favorable answer from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, 
was to put himself in the way of endeavoring to become an 
emperor, or at least a monarch ; for it had been so settled be- 
tween them, and with his personal worth and the might of his 
arm it was an easy matter to come to be one : and how on 
becoming one his lord was to make a marriage for him (for he 
would be a widower by that time, as a matter of course) and 
was to give him as a wife one of the damsels of the empress, 
the heiress of some rich and grand state on the mainland, hav- 
ing nothing to do with islands of any sort, for he did not care 
for them now. All this Sancho delivered with so much com- 
posure wiping his nose from time to time — and with so 

little common-sense that his two hearers were again filled with 
wonder at the force of Don Quixote’s madness that could run 

VoL. I. — 14 


210 


DON QUIXOTE. 


away with this poor man’s reason. They did not care to take 
the trouble of disabusing him of his error, as they considered 
that since it did not in any way hurt his conscience it would 
be better to leave him in it, and they would have all the more 
amusement in listening to his simplicities ; and so they bade 
him pray to God for his lord’s health, as it was a very likely 
and a very feasible thing for him in course of time to come to 
be an emperor, as he said, or at least an archbishop or some 
other dignitary of equal rank. 

To which Sancho made answer, If fortune, sirs, should 
bring things about in such a way that my master should have 
a mind, instead of being an emperor, to be an archbishop, I 
should like to know what archbishops-errant commonly give 
their squires ? ” 

They commonly give them,” said the curate, some simple 
benefice or cure, or some place as sacristan which brings them 
a good fixed income, not counting the altar fees, which may be 
reckoned at as much more.” 

But for that,” said Sancho, “ the squire must be unmarried, 
and must know, at any rate, how to help at Mass, and if that 
be so, woe is me, for I am married already and I don’t know 
the first letter of the ABC. What will become of me if my 
master takes a fancy to be an archbishop and not an emperor, 
as is usual and customary w'ith knights-errant ? ” 

Be not uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the barber, for we 
will entreat your master, and advise him, even urging it upon 
him as a case of conscience, to become an emperor and not an 
archbishop, because it will be easier for him as he is more val- 
iant than lettered.” 

“ So I have thought,” said Sancho ; though I can tell you 
he is fit for anything : what I mean to do for my part is to 
pray to our Lord to place him where it may be best for him, 
and where he may be able to bestow most favors upon me.” 

You speak like a man of sense,” said the curate, and you 
will be acting like a good Christian ; but what must now be 
done is to take steps to coax your master out of that useless 
penance you say he is performing ; and we had best turn into 
this inn to consider what plan to adopt, and also to dine, for it 
is now time.” 

Sancho said they might go in, but that he would wait there 
outside, that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he 
was unwilling, and why it did not suit him to enter it ; but he 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


211 


begged them to bring him out something to eat, and to let it be 
hot, and also to bring barley for Eocinante. They left him and 
went in, and presently the barber brought him out something to 
eat. By-and-by, after they had between them carefully thought 
over what they should do to carry out their object, the curate 
hit upon an idea very well adapted to humor Don Quixote, and 
effect their purpose ; and his notion, which he explained to the 
barber, was that he himself should assume the disguise of a wan- 
dering damsel, while the other should try as best he could to pass 
for a squire, and that they should thus proceed to where Don 
Quixote was, and he, pretending to be an aggrieved and dis- 
tressed damsel, should ask a favor of him, which as a valiant 
knight-errant he could not refuse to grant ; and the favor he 
meant to ask him was that he should accompany her whither she 
would conduct him, in order to redress a wrong which a wicked 
knight had done her, while at the same time she should entreat 
him not to require her to remove her mask, nor ask her any ques- 
tion touching her circumstances until he had righted her with 
the wicked knight. And he had no doubt that Don Quixote 
would comply with any request made in these terms, and that 
in this way they might remove him and take him to his own 
village, where they would endeavor to find out if his extraor- 
dinary madness admitted of any kind of remedy. 


CHAPTEE XXVII. 

OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH 
THEIR SCHEME J TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY 
OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY. 

The curate’s plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but 
on the contrary so good that they immediately set about put- 
ting it in execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the 
landlady, leaving her in pledge a new cassock of the curate’s ; 
and the barber made a beard out of a gray or red ox-tail in 
which the landlord used to stick his comb. The landlady 
asked them what they wanted these things for, and the curate 
told her in a few words about the madness of Don Quixote 
and how this disguise was intended to get him away from 
the mountain where he then was. The landlord and landlady 


212 


DON QUIXOTE. 


imiTiediately came to the conclusion that the madman was theii 
guest, the balsam man and master of the blanketed squire, and 
they told the curate all that had passed between him and 
them, not omitting what Sancho had been so silent about. 
Finally the landlady dressed up the curate in a style that left 
nothing to be desired ; she put on him a cloth petticoat with 
black velvet stripes a palm broad, all slashed, and a bodice of 
green velvet set off by a binding of white satin, which as well 
as the petticoat must have been made in the time of king 
Wamba.^ The curate would not let them cover him with the 
hood, but put on his head a little quilted linen cap which he 
used for a night-cap, and bound his forehead with a strip of 
black silk, while with another he made a mask with which he 
concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his hat, 
which was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and en- 
veloping himself in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion 
on his mule, while the barber mounted his with a beard down 
to the waist of mingled red and white, for it was, as has been 
said, the tail of a red ox. They took leave of all, and of the 
good Maritornes, who, sinner as she was, promised to pray a 
rosary of prayers that God might grant them success in such 
an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they had in 
hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it 
struck the curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself 
out in that fashion, as it was an indecorous thing for a priest 
to dress himself that way even though much might depend 
upon it ; and saying so to the barber he begged him to change 
dresses, as it was fitter he should be the distressed damsel, 
while he himself would play the squire’s part, which would be 
less derogatory to his dignity ; otherwise he was resolved to 
haye nothing more to do with the matter, and let the devil 
take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho came up, and 
on seeing the pair in such a costume he was unable to re- 
strain his laughter ; the barber, however, agreed to do as the 
curate wished, and, altering their plan, the curate went on to 
instruct him how to play his part and what to say to Don Qui- 
xote to induce and compel him to come with them and give up 
his fancy for the place he had chosen for his idle penance. 
The barber told him he could manage it properly without 
any instruction, and as he did not care to dress himself up 
until they were near where Don Quixote was, he folded up the 

* Wamba, a king of the Gothic line who reigned from 672 to 680. 


CHAPTER XXVI I . 


213 


garments, and the curate adjusted his beard, and they set out 
under the guidance of Sancho Panza, who went along telling 
them of the encounter with the madman they met in the 
Sierra, saying nothing, however, about the finding of the valise 
and its contents ; for with all his simplicity the lad was a trifle 
covetous. 

The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid 
the broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had 
left his master, and recognizing it he told them that here was 
the entrance, and that they would do well to dress themselves, 
if that was required to deliver his master ; for they had al- 
ready told him that going in this guise and dressing in this 
way were of the highest importance in order to rescue his 
master from the pernicious life he had adopted ; and they 
charged him strictly not to tell his master who they were, or 
that he knew them, and should he ask, as ask he would, if he 
had given the letter to Dulcinea, to say he had, and that, as 
she did not know how to read,^ she had given an answer by 
word of mouth, saying that she commanded him, on pain of 
her displeasure, to come and see her at once ; and it was a very 
important matter for himself, because in this way and with 
what they meant to say to him they felt sure of bringing him 
back to a better mode of life and inducing him to take imme- 
diate steps to become an emperor or monarch, for there was no 
fear of his becoming an archbishop. All this Sancho listened 
to and fixed it well in his memory, and thanked them heartily 
for intending to recommend his master to be an emperor in- 
stead of an archbishop, for he felt sure that in the way of 
bestowing rewards on their squires emperors could do more 
than archbishops-errant. He said, -too, that it would be as well 
for him to go on before them to find him, and give him his 
lady’s answer; for that perhaps might be enough to bring 
him away from the place without putting them to all this 
trouble. They approved of what Sancho proposed, and re- 
solved to wait for him until he brought back word of having 
found his master. 

Sancho pushed into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in 
one through which there flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where 
the recks and trees afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was 
an August day with all the heat of one, and the heat in those 

* A curious reason for giving a verbal answer ; but if she did not kno\V 
how to read, a fortiori she could not write. 


214 


DON QUIXOTE. 


parts is intense, and the hour was three in the afternoon, all 
which made the spot the more inviting and tempted them to 
wait there for Sancho’s return, which they did. They were re- 
posing, then, in the shade, when a voice unaccompanied by the 
notes of any instrument, but sweet and pleasing in its tone, 
reached their ears, at which they were not a little astonished, 
as the place did not seem to them likely quarters for one who 
sang so well ; for though it is often said that shepherds of rare 
voice are to be found in the woods and fields, this is rather a 
flight of the poet’s fancy than the truth. And still more sur- 
prised were they when they perceived that what they heard 
sung were the verses not of rustic shepherds, but of the polished 
wits of the city ; ^ and so it proved, for the verses they heard 
were these : ^ 

What makes my quest of happiness seem vain ? 

Disdain. 

What bids me to abandon hope of ease ? 

Jealousies. 

What holds my heart in anguish of suspense ? 

Absence. 

If that be so, then for my grief 
Where shall I turn to seek relief. 

When hope on every side lies slain 
By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain ? 

What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove ? 

Love. 

What at my glory ever looks askance ? 

Chance. 

Whence is permission to afflict me given ? 

Heaven. 

If that be so, I but await 
The stroke of a resistless fate. 

Since, working for my woe, these three. 

Love, Chance, and Heaven, in league I see. 

* Cortesanos^ not courtiers, but persons who have caught the tone, tastes, 
and culture of La Corte., " the Court,” as the capital was always called. 

2 These are intended to be echo verses ; but, as Clemencin has pointed 
out, the echoes are nothing but rhymes. In the novel of the llustre Fre- 
gona., Cervantes introduced similar verses, which Lope de Vega turned 
into ridicule in a parody. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


215 


What must I do to find a remedy ? 

Die. 

What is the lure for love when coy and strange ? 

Change. 

What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness ? 

Madness. 

If that be so, it is but folly 
To seek a cure for melancholy : 

Ask where it lies ; the answer saith 
In Change, in Madness, or in Death. 

The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice 
and skill of the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight 
of the two listeners, who remained still waiting to hear some- 
thing more ; finding, however, that the silence continued some 
little time, they resolved to go in search of the musician who 
sang with so fine a voice ; but just as they were about to do so 
they were checked by the same voice, which once more fell upon 
their ears, singing this 

SONNET.^ 

When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go 
Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky, 

And take thy seat among the saints on high, 

It was thy will to leave on earth below 

Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow 
Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy. 

Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye. 

And makes its vileness bright as virtue show. 

Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat 
That wears it now, thy livery to restore. 

By aid whereof sincerity is slain. 

If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit. 

This earth will be the prey of strife once more. 

As when primeval discord held its reign. 

^ Notwithstanding Clemencin’s disparaging remark that this is " of the 
same stuff” as Cervantes’ sonnets are commonly composed of, it will be 
seen, even in translation, that there is at least a backbone here, while the 
serious sonnets of Cervantes are only too often little better than inverte- 
brate twaddle. Translation, however, can not reproduce the exquisite 
melody of the original, and, had it no other merit, this alone would, pace 
Clemencin, entitle the sonnet to a place among the best in the Spanish 
language. 


216 


DON QUIXOTE. 


The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners 
remained waiting attentively for the singer to resume ; but per- 
ceiving that the music had now turned to sobs and heart-rend- 
ing moans they determined to find out who the unhappy being 
could be whose voice was as rare as his sighs were piteous, and 
they had not proceeded far when on turning the corner of a 
rock they discovered a man of the same aspect and appearance 
as Sancho had described to them when he told them the story 
of Cardenio. He, showing no astonishment when he saw them, 
stood still with his head bent down upon his breast like one in 
deep thought, without raising his eyes to look at them after 
the first glance when they suddenly came upon him. The 
curate, who was aware of his misfortune and recognized him 
by the description, being a man of good address, approached 
him and in a few sensible words entreated and urged him to 
quit a life of such misery, lest he should end it there, which 
would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then 
in his right mind, free from any attack of that madness which 
so frequently carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a 
fashion so unusual among the frequenters of those wilds, could 
not help showing some surprise, especially when he heard them 
speak of his case as if it were a well-known matter (for the 
curate’s words gave him to understand as much) ; so he replied 
to them thus, ‘‘ I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that 
Heaven, whose care it is to succor the good, and even the 
wicked very often, here, in this remote spot, cut off from human 
intercourse, sends me, though I deserve it not, those who seek 
to draw me away from this to some better retreat, showing me 
by many and forcible arguments how unreasonably I act in 
leading the life I do ; but as they know not what I know, that 
if I escape from this evil I shall fall into another still greater, 
perhaps they will set me down as a weak-minded man, or, what 
is worse, one devoid of reason ; nor would it be any wonder, for 
I myself can perceive that the effect of the recollection of my 
misfortunes is so great and works so powerfully to my ruin, 
that in spite of myself I become at times like a stone, without 
feeling or consciousness ; and I come to feel the truth of it 
when they tell me and show me proofs of the things I have 
done when the terrible fit overmasters me ; and all I can do is 
bewail my lot in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and plead for 
my madness by telling how it was caused, to any that care to 
hear it j for no reasonable beings on learning the cause will 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


21 ! 


wonder at the effects ; and if they can not help me at least 
they will not blame me, and the repugnance they feel at jin'- 
wild ways will turn into pity for my woes. If it be, sirs, that 
you are here with the same design as others have come with, 
before you proceed with your wise arguments, I entreat you to 
hear the story of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps when 
you have heard it you will spare yourselves the trouble you 
would take in offering consolation to grief that is beyond the 
reach of it.’’ 

As they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear 
from his own lips the cause of his suffering, they entreated 
him to tell it, promising not to do anything for his relief or 
comfort that he did not wish; and thereupon the unhappy 
gentleman began his sad story in nearly the same words and 
manner in which he had related it to Don Quixote and the goat- 
herd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and 
Don Quixote’s scrupulous observance of what was due to chiv- 
alry, the tale was left unfinished, as this history has already 
recorded ; but now fortunately the mad fit kept off, and allowed 
him to tell it to the end ; and so, coming to the incident of the 
note which Don Fernando had found in the volume of Amadis 
of Gaul,” Cardenio said that he remembered it perfectly and 
that it was in these words : 

Luscinda to Cardenio. 

" Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to hold 
you in higher estimation ; so if you desire to relieve me of this obliga- 
tion without cost to my honor, you may easily do so. I have a father 
who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting any constraint 
on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable for you to have, if 
it be that you value me as you say and as I believe you do.” 

By this letter 1 was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda 
for my wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded 
by Don Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of 
the day, and this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me 
before mine could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that 
all Luscinda’s father was waiting for was that mine should ask her 
of him, which I did not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he 
would not consent to do so ; not because he did not know perfectly 
well the rank, goodness, virtue, and beauty of Luscinda, and that 
she had qualities that would do honor to any family in Spain, but 
because I was aware that he did not wish me to marry so soon, 
before seeing what the duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I 
told him I did not venture to mention it to my father, as well on 


218 


DON QUIXOTE, 


aocouut of that difficulty, as of many others that discouraged mo, 
though I knew not well what they were, only that it seemed to me 
that what I desired was never to come to jmss. To all this Don 
Fernando answered that he would take it upon himself to speak to 
my father, and persuade him to speak to Luscinda’s father. O, am- 
bitious Marius ! O, cruel Catiline ! O, wicked Sylla ! O, perfidious 
Ganelon! O, treacherous Vellido ! O, vindictive Julian ! ’ O, covetous 
Judas! Traitor, cruel, vindictive, and perfidious, wherein had this 
poor wretch failed in his fidelity, who with such frankness showed 
thee the secrets and the joys of his heart ? What offence did 1 com- 
mit? What words did i utter, or what counsels did I give that had 
not the furtherance of thy honor and welfare for their aim ? But, 
woe is me, wherefore do i complain ? for sure it is that when mis- 
fortunes spring from the stars, descending from on high they fall 
upon us with such fury and violence that no power on earth can 
check their course nor human device stay their coming. Who could 
have thought that Don Fernando, a high-born gentleman, intelligent, 
bound to me by gratitude for my services, one that could win the 
object of his love wherever he might set his affections, could have 
become so morbid, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb 
that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside these use- 
less and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread of 
my unhappy story. 

To proceed, then : Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle 
to the execution of his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to 
send me to his elder brother under the pretext of asking money 
from him to pay for six horses which, purposely, and with the sole 
object of sending me away that he might the better carry out his in- 
fernal scheme, he had purchased the very day he offered to speak 
to my father, and the price of which he now desired me to fetch. 
Could I have anticipated this treachery ? Could I by any chance 
have suspected it? Nay ; so far from that, I offered with the greatest 
pleasure to go at once, in my satisfaction at the good bargain that 
had been made. That night I spoke with Luscinda, and told her 
what had been agreed upon with Don Fernando, and how I had 
strong hopes of our fair and reasonable wishes being realized. She, 
as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don Fernando, bade me 
try to return speedily, as she believed the fulfilment of our desires 
would be delayed only so long as my father put off speaking to hers. 
I know not why it was that on saying this to me her eyes filled with 
tears, and there came a lump in her throat that prevented her from 
uttering a word of many more that it seemed to me she was striving 
to say to me. I was astonished at this unusual turn, which I never 
before observed in her, for we 'always conversed, whenever good 
fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the greatest 

* Ganelon or Galalon, who betrayed Roland and the Peers at Ronces- 
valles ; Vellido Dolfos, who treacherously slew Sancho II. at the siege of 
Zamora in 1072; and Count Julian, who admitted the Arabs into Spain 
to revenge himself upon Roderic. 


CHAPTER XXriL 


219 


gayety and cheerfulness, without mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, 
doubts, or fears with our words ; it was all on my part a eulogy of 
my good fortune that Heaven should have given her to me for my 
mistress ; I glorified her beauty, I extolled her worth and her under- 
standing ; and she paid me back by praising in me W'hat in her love 
for me she thought worthy of praise ; and besides we had a hundred 
thousand trifles and doings of our neighbors and acquaintances to 
talk about, and the utmost extent of my boldness was to take, almost 
by force, one of her fair white hands and carry it to my lips, as well 
as the closeness of the low grating that separated us allowed me. 
But the night before the unhappy day of my departure she wept, she 
moaned, she sighed, and she withdrew leaving me filled with per- 
plexity and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such strange 
and affecting signs of grief and sorrow in Luscinda ; but not to dash 
my hopes I ascribed it all to the depth of her love for me and the 
pain that separation gives those who love tenderly. At last 1 took 
my departure, sad and dejected, my heart filled with fancies and 
suspicions, but not knowing well what it was I suspected or fancied ; 
plain omens pointing to the sad event and misfortune that was 
awaiting me. 

1 reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don 
Fernando’s brother, and was kindly received but not promptly dis- 
missed, for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight 
days in some place where the duke his father was not likely to see 
me, as his brother wrote that the money was to be sent without his 
knowledge ; all of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don 
Fernando, for his brother had no want of money to enable him to 
despatch me at once. 

The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of dis- 
obeying it, as it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many 
days separated from Luscinda, especially after leaving her in the 
sorrowful mood I have described to you ; nevertheless as a dutiful 
servant I obeyed , though I felt it would be at the cost of my well- 
being. But four days later there came a man in quest of me with a 
letter which he gave me, and which by the address I perceived to be 
from Luscinda, as the writing was hers. I opened it with fear -and 
trepidation, persuaded that it must be something serious that had 
impelled her to write to me when at a distance, as she seldom did so 
when I was near. Before reading it I asked the man who it was that 
had given it to him, and how long he had been upon the road ; he 
told me that as he happened to be passing through one of the streets 
of the city at the hour of noon, a very beautiful lady called to him 
from a window, and with tears in her eyes said to him hurriedly, 
“ Brother, if you are, as you seem to be, a Christian, for the love of 
God I entreat you to have this letter despatched without a moment’s 
delay to the person named in the address, all which is well known, 
and by this you will render a great service to our Lord ; and that you 
may be at no inconvenience in doing so take what is in this handker- 
chief; ” and said he, “with this she threw me a handkerchief out of 
the window in which were tied up a hundred reals and this gold ring 


220 


2/OA' QUIXOTE, 


which I bring here together with the letter I have given you. And 
then without waiting for any answer she left the window, though 
not before she saw me take the letter and the handkerchief, and I 
had by signs let her know that I would do as she bade me ; and so, 
seeing myself so well paid for the trouble I would have in bringing 
it to you, and knowing b}'' the address that it was to you it was sent 
(for, senor, I know you very well), and also unable to resist that 
beautiful lady’s tears, I resolved to trust no one else, but to come 
myself and give it to you, and in sixteen hours from the time when 
it was given me I have made the journey, which, as you know, is 
eighteen leagues.” 

All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me 
this, I hung upon his words, ray legs trembling under me so that I 
could scarcely stand. However, I opened the letter and read these 
words : 

" The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak to 
mine, he has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your 
advantage. I have to tell you, senor, that he has demanded me for a 
wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando’s 
superiority oxer you, has favored his suit so cordially, that in two days 
hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so privately 
the only witnesses are to be the heavens above and a few of the house- 
hold. Picture to yourself the state I am in ; judge if it be urgent for you 
to come ; the issue of the affair will show you whether I love you or not. 
God grant this may come to your hand before mine shall be forced to link 
itself with his who keeps so ill the faith that he has pledged.” 

Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me 
set out at once without waiting any longer for reply or money ; for 
I now saw clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his 
own pleasure that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. 
The exasperation I felt against Don Fernando, joined with the fear 
of losing the prize I had won by so many years of love and devotion, 
lent me wings; so that almost flying I reached home the same day, 
by the hour which served for speaking with Luscinda. I arrived 
unobserved, and left the mule on which I had come, at the house of 
the worthy man who had brought me the letter, and fortune was 
pleased to be for once so kind that I found Luscinda at the grating 
that was the witness of our loves. She recognized me at once, and 
I her, but not as she ought to have recognized me, or 1 her. But who 
is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed or understood 
the wavering mind and unstable nature of a woman ? Of a truth no 
one. To proceed: as soon as Luscinda saw me she said, “ Cardenio, 
1 am in my bridal dress, and the treacherous Don Fernando and my 
covetous father are waiting for me in the hall with the other wit- 
n asses, who shall be the witnesses of my death before they witness 
my betrothal. Be not distressed, my friend, but contrive to be 
present at this sacrifice, and if that can not be prevented by my 
words, 1 have a dagger concealed whioii will prevent more deliberate 


CHAPTER XXVI L 


221 


violence, putting an end to my life and giving thee a first proof of 
the love I have borne and bear thee.” I replied to her distractedly 
and hastily, in fear lest I should not have time to reply, “ May thy 
iVords be verified by thy deeds, lady; and if thou hast a dagger to 
save thy honor, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself if 
fortune be against us.” 

I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived 
that they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. 
!Now the night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went 
down, I felt my eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could 
not enter the house, nor was I capable of any movement ; but re- 
flecting how important it was that I should be present at what might 
take place on the occasion, I nerved myself as best 1 could and went 
in, for I well knew all the entrances and outlets; and besides, with 
the confusion that in secret pervaded the house, no one perceived 
me, so, without being seen, I found an opportunity of placing myself 
in the recess formed by a window of the hall itself, and concealed 
by the ends and borders of two tapestries, from between which I 
could, without being seen, see all that took place in the room. Who 
could describe the agitation of heart I suffered as I stood there 
— the thoughts that came to me — the reflections that passed 
through my mind? They were such as can not be, nor were it well 
they should be, told. Sufiice it to say that the bridegroom entered 
the hall in his usual dress, without ornament of any kind; as 
groomsman he had with him a cousin of Luscinda’s, and except the 
servants of the house there was no one else in the chamber. Soon 
afterwards Luscinda came out from an ante-chamber, attended by 
her mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as became 
her rank and beauty, and in full festival and ceremonial attire. My 
anxiety and distraction did not allow me to observe or notice par- 
ticularly what she wore ; I could only perceive the colors, which 
were crimson and white, and the glitter of the gems and jewels on 
her head-dress and apparel, surpassed by the rare beauty of her 
lovely auburn hair that vying with the precious stones and the light 
of the four torches that stood in the hall shone with a brighter gleam 
than all. Oh memor 3 ^ mortal foe of my peace ! why bring before 
me now the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of mine ? 
W'ere it not better, cruel memory, to remind me and recall what she 
then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring 1 may seek, if not 
vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life ? Be not weary, sirs, 
of listening to these digressions : my sorrow is not one of those 
that can or should be told tersely and briefly, for to me each incident 
seems to call for many words. 

To this the curate replied that not only were they not 
weary of listening to him, but that the details he mentioned 
interested them greatly, being of a kind by no means to be 
omitted and deserving of the same attention as the main 
story. 


222 


DON QUIXOTE. 


To proceed, then (continued Cardenio) : all being assembled in 
the hall, the priest of the parish came in, and as he took the pair by 
the hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, “ Will 
you, Senora Luscinda, take Senor Don Fernando, here present, for 
your lawful husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains?” I 
thrust my head and neck out from between the tapestries, and with 
eager ears and throbbing heart set myself to listen to Luscinda’s 
answer, awaiting in her reply the sentence of death or the grant of 
life. Oh, that I had but dared at that moment to rush forward cry- 
ing aloud, “ Luscinda, Luscinda! have a care what thou dost; 
remember what thou owest me ; bethink thee thou art mine and 
canst not be another’s ; reflect that thy utterance of ‘ Yes ’ and the 
end of my life will come at the same instant. O, treacherous Don 
Fernando ! robber of my glory, death of my life ! what wouldst 
thou ? What seekest thou ? Remember that thou canst not as a 
Christian attain the object of thy wishes, for Luscinda is my bride, 
and I am her husband ! ” Fool that I am 1 now that I am far away, 
and out of danger, I say I should have done what I did not do : now 
that I have allowed my precious treasure to be robbed from me, I 
curse the robber, on whom I might have taken vengeance had I as 
much heart for it as I have for bewailing my fate ; in short, as I 
was then a coward and a fool, little wonder is it if I am now 
dying shame-stricken, remorseful, and mad. 

The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a 
long time withheld it ; and just as I thought she was taking out the 
dagger to save her honor, or struggling for words to make some 
declaration of the truth on my behmf, I heard her say in a faint and 
feeble voice, “ I will : ” Don Fernando said the same, and giving her 
the ring they stood linked by a knot that could never be loosed. The 
bridegroom then approached to embrace his bride ; and she, press- 
ing her hand upon her heart, fell fainting in her mother’s arms. It 
only remains now for me to tell you the state I was in when in that 
consent that I heard I saw all my hopes mocked, the words and prom- 
ises of Luscinda proved falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I 
had that instant lost rendered impossible forever. I stood stupefled, 
wholly abandoned, it seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the 
earth that bore me, the air refusing me breath for my sighs, the 
water moisture for my tears; it was only the Are that gathered 
strength so that my whole frame glowed with rage and jealousy. 
They were all thrown into confusion by Luscinda’s fainting, and as 
her mother was unlacing her to give her air, a sealed paper was dis- 
covered in her bosom, which Don Fernando seized at once and be- 
gan to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as he had 
read it he seated himself in a chair leaning his cheek on his hand in 
the attitude of one in deep thought, without taking any part in the 
efforts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting 
fit. 

Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out re- 
gardless whether I were seen or not, and determined if I were, to do 
some frenzied deed that would prove to all the world the righteous 


CHAPTER XXV IT. 


223 


indignation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don 
Fernando, and even in that of the fickle fainting traitress. But my 
fate, doubtless reserving me for greater sorrows, if such there be, so 
ordered it that just then I had enough and to spare of that reason 
which has since been wanting to me ; and so, without seeking to take 
vengeance on my greatest enemies (which might have been easily 
taken, as all thought of me was so far from their minds), I resolved 
to take it upon myself, and on myself to inflict the pain they de- 
served, perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt 
out to them had I then slain them ; for sudden pain is soon over, but 
that which is protracted by tortures is ever slaying without ending 
life. In a word, I quitted the house and reached that of the man 
with whom I had left my mule; I made him saddle it for me, 
mounted without bidding him farewell, and rode out of the city, like 
another Lot, not daring to turn my head to look back upon it ; and 
when I found myself alone in the open country, screened by the 
darkness of the night, and tempted by the stillness to give vent to 
my grief without apprehension or fear of being heard or seen, then 
I broke silence and lifted up my voice in maledictions upon Luscinda 
and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge the wrong they had 
done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, thankless, but above 
all covetous, since the wealth of my enemy had blinded the eyes of 
her affection, and turned it from me to transfer it to one to whom 
fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yet, in the midst 
of this outburst of execration and upbraiding, I found excuses for 
her, saying it was no wonder that a young girl in the seclusion of 
her parents’ house, trained and schooled to obey them always, should 
have been ready to yield to their wishes when they offered her for a 
husband a gentleman of such distinction, wealth, and noble birth, 
that if she had refused to accept him she would have been thought 
out of her senses, or to have set her affection elsewhere, a suspicion 
injurious to her fair name and fame. But then again, I said, had she 
declared I was her husband, they would have seen that in choosing 
me she had not chosen so ill but that they might excuse her, for be- 
fore Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could not 
have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more eligi- 
ble husband for their daughter than I was ; and she, before taking 
the last fatal step of giving her hand, might easily have said that I 
had already given her mine, for I should have come forward to 
support any assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the 
conclusion that feeble love, little reflection, great ambition, and a 
craving for rank, had made her forget the words with which she 
had deceived me, encouraged and supported by my firm hopes and 
honorable passion. 

Thus soliloquizing and agitated, I journeyed onward for the re- 
mainder of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes 
of these mountains, among which I wandered for three days more 
without taking any path or road, until I came to some meadows 
lying on I know not which side of the mountains, and there I in- 
quired of some herdsmen in what direction the most rugged part 


224 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of the range lay. They told me that it was in this quarter, and I at 
once directed niy course hither, intending to end my life here ; but 
as 1 was making my way among these crags, my mule dropped dead 
through fatigue and hunger, or, as I think more likely, in order to 
have done with such a worthless burden as it bore in me. I was lefi^ 
on foot, worn out, famished, without any one to help me or any 
thought of seeking help ; and so thus I lay stretched on the ground, 
how long I know not, after which I rose up free from hunger, and 
found beside me some goatherds, who no doubt were the persons 
who had relieved me in my need, for they told me how they had 
found me, and how I had been uttering ravings that showed plainly 
I had lost my reason ; and since then 1 am conscious that I am not 
always in full possession of it, but at times so deranged and crazed 
that I do a thousand mad things, tearing my clothes, crying aloud 
in these solitudes, cursing my fate, and idly calling on the dear name 
of her who is my enemy, and only seeking to end my life in lamen- 
tation ; and when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and 
weary that 1 can scarcely move. Most commonly my dwelling is 
the hollow of a cork tree large enough to shelter this miserable bod}’^ ; 
the herdsmen and goatherds who frequent these mountains, moved 
by compassion, furnish me with food, leaving it by the wayside or 
on the rocks, where they think I may perhaps pass and find it ; and 
so, even though I may be then out of my senses, the wants of nature 
teach me what is required to sustain me, and make me crave it and 
eager to take it. At other times, so they tell me when they find me 
in a rational mood, I sally out upon the road, and though they would 
gladly give it me, I snatch food by force from the shepherds bringing it 
from the village to their huts. Thus do I pass the MU’etched life that 
remains to me, until it be Heaven’s will to bring it to a close, or so to 
order my memory that I no longer recollect the beauty or treachery 
of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by Don Fernando; for if it will 
do this without depriving me of life, I will turn my thoughts into 
some better channel ; if not, I can only implore it to have full mercy 
on my soul, for in myself 1 feel no power or strength to release my 
body from this strait in which I have of my own accord chosen to 
place it. 

Such, sirs, is the dismal story of my misfortune : say if it be one 
that can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me ; and dc 
not trouble yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what reason 
suggests as likely to serve for my relief, for it will avail me as much 
as the medicine prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick man 
who will not take it. I have no wish for health without Luscinda ; 
and since it is her pleasure to be another’s, when she is or should be 
mine, let it be mine to be a prey to misery when I might have en- 
joyed happiness. She by her fickleness strove to make my ruin irre- 
trievable ; I will strive to gratify her wishes by seeking destruction ; 
and it will show generations to come that I alone was deprived of 
that of which all others in misfortune have a superabundance, for to 
them the impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while 
to me it is the cause of greater sorrows and sufferings, for I think that 
even in death there will not be an end of them. 


CHAPTER XXVI I L 


225 


Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and 
story, as full of misfortune as it was of love ; but just as the 
curate was going to address some words of comfort to him, he 
was stopped by a voice that reached his ear, saying in melan- 
choly tones what will be told in the Fourth Part of this narra- 
tive : for at this point the sage and sagacious historian, Cid 
Hamet Benengeli, brought the third to a conclusion^ 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENT- 
URE THAT BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE 

SAME SIERRA. 

Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring 
knight Don Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world ; for 
by reason of his having formed a resolution so honorable as 
that of seeking to revive and restore to the world the long-lost 
and almost defunct order of knight-errantry, we now enjoy in 
this age of ours, so poor in light entertainment, not only the 
charm of his veracious history, but also of the tales and epi- 
sodes contained in it, which are, in a measure, no less pleasing, 
ingenious, and truthful, than the history itself ; ^ which, re- 
suming its thread, carded, spun, and wound, relates that just 
as the curate was going to offer consolation to Cardenio, he was 
interrupted by a voice that fell upon his ear saying in plaintive 
tones : 

0 God ! is it possible I have found a place that may serve 
as a secret grave for the weary load of this body that I support 
so unwillingly ? If the solitude these mountains promise de- 
ceive me not, it is so ; ah ! woe is me ! how much more grateful 
to my mind will be the society of these rocks and brakes that 
permit me to complain of my misfortune to Heaven, than that 
of any human being, for there is none on earth to look to for 
counsel in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or relief in distress ! 

All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with 

* See the note to chapter viii. page 53, on the original division into 
parts. 

* This looks as if some doubt had crossed the mind of Cervantes as to 
the propriety of introducing these tales and episodes. 

VOL. I. — 15 


226 


DON QUIXOTE, 


him, and as it seemed to them to be uttered close by, as indeed 
it was, they got up to look for the speaker, and before they had 
gone twenty paces they discovered behind a rock, seated at the 
foot of an ash tree, a youth in the dress of a peasant, whose 
face they were unable at the moment to see as he was leaning 
forward, bathing his feet in the brook that flowed past. They 
approached so silently that he did not perceive them, being fully 
occupied in bathing his feet, which were so fair that they looked 
like two pieces of shining crystal embedded among the stones 
of the brook. The whiteness and beauty of these feet struck 
them with surprise, for they did not seem to have been made 
to crush clods or to follow the plough and the oxen as their 
owner’s dress suggested ; and so, finding they had not been 
noticed, the curate, who was in front, made a sign to the other 
two to conceal themselves behind some fragments of rock that 
lay there ; which they did, observing closely what the youth 
was about. He had on a loose double-skirted gray jacket bound 
tight to his body with a white cloth ; he wore besides breeches 
and gaiters of gray cloth, and on his head a gray montera ; ^ and 
he had the gaiters turned up as far as the middle of the leg, 
which verily seemed to be of pure alabaster. 

As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped 
them with a towel he took from under the montera, on taking 
off which he raised his face, and those who were watching him 
had an opportunity of seeing a beauty so exquisite that Car- 
denio said to the curate in a whisper, As this is not Luscinda, 
it is no human creature but a divine being.” 

The youth then took off the montera, and shaking his head 
from side to side there broke loose and spread out a mass of 
hair that the beams of the sun might have envied; by this 
they knew that what had seemed a peasant was a lovely 
woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes of two of them had 
ever beheld, or even Cardenio’s if they had not seen and known 
Luscinda, for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of 
Luscinda could compare with this. The long auburn tresses 
not only covered her shoulders, but such was their length and 
abundance, concealed her all round beneath their masses, so 
that except the feet nothing of her form was visible. She 
now used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had seemed like 
bits of crystal in the water, her hands looked like pieces of 

* A cloth cap, something like a travelling cap in make, worn by the 
peasants of Central Spain. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


227 


driven snow among her locks ; all which increased not only the 
admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn 
who she was. With this object they resolved to show them- 
selves, and at the stir they made in getting upon their feet the 
fair damsel raised her head, and parting her hair from before 
her eyes with both hands, she looked to see who had made the 
noise, and the instant she perceived them she started to her 
feet, and without waiting to put on her shoes or gather up her 
hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that 
she had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavored to 
take flight ; but before she had gone six paces she fell to the 
ground, her delicate feet being unable to bear the roughness 
of the stones ; seeing which, the three hastened towards her, 
and the curate addressing her first said, Stay, senora, who- 
ever you may be, for those whom you see here only desire to 
be of service to you ; you have no need to attempt a flight so 
heedless, for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow it.” 

Taken by surprise and bewildered, she made no reply to 
these words. They, however, came towards her, and the 
curate taking her hand went on to say, “What your dress 
would hide, senora, is made known to us by your hair ; a clear 
proof that it can be no trifling cause that has disguised your 
beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into solitudes 
like these where we have had the good fortune to find you, if 
not to relieve your distress, at least to offer you comfort ; for 
no distress, as long as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach 
such a height as to make the sufferer refuse to listen to com- 
fort offered with good intention. And so, senora, or sehor, or 
whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the fears that our appear- 
ance has caused you and make us acquainted. with your good 
or evil fortunes, for from all of us together, or from each one 
of us, you will receive sympathy in your trouble.” 

While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood 
as if spell-bound, looking at them without opening her lips or 
uttering a word, just like a village rustic to whom something 
strange that he has never seen before has been suddenly 
shown; but on the curate addressing some further words to 
the same effect to her, sighing deeply she broke silence and 
said, “ Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable 
to conceal me, and the escape of my dishevelled tresses will 
not allow my tongue to deal in falsehoods, it would be idle for 
me now to make any further pretence of what, if you were to 


228 


DON QUIXOTE. 


believe me, you would believe more out of courtesy than for 
any other reason. This being so, I say I thank you, sirs, 
for the offer you made me, which places me under the obliga- 
tion of complying with the request you have made of me; 
though I fear the account I shall give you of my misiortunes 
will excite in you as much concern as compassion, for you will 
be unable to suggest anything to remedy them or any consola- 
tion to alleviate them. However, that my honor may not be 
left a mattter of doubt in your minds, now that you have dis- 
covered me to be a woman, and see that I am young, alone, 
and in this dress, things that taken together or separately 
would be enough to destroy any good name, I feel bound to 
tell what I would willingly keep secret if I could.’’ 

All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered 
without any hesitation, with so much ease and in so sweet a 
voice that they were not less charmed by her intelligence than 
by her beauty, and as they again repeated their olfers and en- 
treaties to her to fulfil her promise, she without further press- 
ing, first modestly covering her feet and gathering up her hair, 
seated herself on a stone with the three placed around her, 
and, after an effort to restrain some tears that came to her eyes, 
in a clear and steady voice began her story thus : 

In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title 
which makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. 
This nobleman has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and ap- 
parently to his good qualities ; the younger heir to I know not what, 
unless it be the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon.* 
My parents are this lord’s vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy 
that if birth had conferred as much on them as fortune, they would 
have had nothing left to desire, nor should I have had reason to fear 
trouble like that in which I find myself now ; for it may be that my 
ill fortune came of theirs in not having been nobly born. It is true 
they are not so low that they have any reason to be ashamed of their 
condition, but neither are they so high as to remove from my mind 
the impression that my mishap comes of their humble birth. They 
are, in short, peasants, plain homely people, without any taint of 
disreputable blood, and, as the saying is, old rusty Christians,® but 
so rich that by their wealth and free-handed way of life they are 
coming by degrees to be considered gentlefolk by birth, and even 
by position; 3 though the wealth and nobility they thought most of 

* See Note 1, p. 218. 

® Cristianos viejos rancios : rancio is applied to anything, like bacon or 
wine, that has acquired a peculiar flavor from long keeping. 

® Literally, " hidalgos and even Caballeros : ” " hidalgo ” being a gen- 
tleman by birth, caballero ” one by social position or standing. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


229 


was having me for their daughter ; and as they have no other child 
to make their heir, and are afiectionate parents, I was one of the 
most indulged daughters that ever parents indulged. 

I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of 
their old age, and the object in which, with submission to Heaven, 
all their wishes centred, and mine were in accordance with theirs, 
for I knew their worth ; and as I was mistress of their hearts, so 
was I also of their possessions. Through me they engaged or dis- 
missed their servants ; through my hands passed the accounts and re- 
turns of what was sown and reaped ; the oil-mills, the wine-presses, 
the count of the flocks and herds, the beehives, all in short that a 
rich farmer like my father has or can have, I had under my care, and 
I acted as steward and mistress with an assiduity on my part and 
satisfaction on theirs that I can not well describe to you. The leisure 
hours left to me after I had given the requisite orders to the shep- 
herds, head men, and laborers, I passed in such employments as 
are not only allowable but necessary for young girls, those that the 
needle, embroidery cushion, and spinning wheel usually afford, and 
if to ref resh my mind I quitted them for a while, I found recreation 
in reading some devotional book or playing the harp, for experience 
taught me that music soothes the troubled mind and relieves weari- 
ness of spirit. Such was the life I led in my parents’ house, and if 
I have depicted it thus minutely, it is not out of ostentation, or to 
let you know that I am rich, but that you may see how, without any 
fault of mine, I have fallen from the happy condition I have de- 
scribed, to the misery I am in at present. The truth is, that while I 
was leading this busy life, in a retirement that might compare with 
that of a monastery, and unseen as I thought by any except the 
servants of the house (for when I went to Mass it was so early in the 
morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother and the women 
of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my eyes 
scarcely saw more ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the 
eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx’s 
can not rival, discovered me, with the help of the assiduity of Don 
Fernando ; for that is the name of the younger son of the duke I 
told you of. 

The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fer- 
nando, Cardenio changed color and broke into a sweat, with 
such signs of emotion that the curate and the barber, who 
observed it, feared that one of the mad fits which they heard 
attacked him sometimes was coming upon him ; but Cardenio 
showed no further agitation and remained quiet, regarding the 
peasant girl with fixed attention, for he began to suspect who 
she was. She, however, without noticing the excitement of 
Cardenio, continuing her story, went on to say ; 

And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned after- 
wards, he was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in 


230 


DON QUIXOTE. 


which it displayed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long 
recital of my woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices em- 
ployed by Don Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He 
bribed all the household, he gave and offered gifts and presents to 
my parents ; every day was like a holiday or a merrymaking in our 
street; by night no one could sleep for the music; the love letters 
that used to come to my hand, no one knew how, were innumerable, 
full of tender pleadings and pledges, containing more promises and 
oaths than there were letters in them ; all which not only did not 
soften me, but hardened my heart against him, as if he had been my 
mortal enemy, and as if everything he did to make me yield were 
done with the opposite intention. Not that the high-bred bearing of 
Don Fernando was disagreeable to me, or that I found his importu- 
nities wearisome ; for it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction to find 
myself so sought and prized by a gentleman of such distinction, and 
I was not displeased at seeing my praises in his letters (for however 
ugly we women may be, it seems to me it always pleases us to hear 
ourselves called beautiful) ; but that my own sense of right was 
opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of my parents, 
who now very plainly perceived Don Fernando’s purpose, for he 
cared very little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted 
and confided their honor and good name to my virtue and rectitude 
alone, and bade me consider the disparity between Don Fernando 
and myself, from which I might conclude that his intentions, what- 
ever he might say to the contrary, had for their aim his own pleas- 
ure rather than my advantage; and if I were at all desirous of 
opposing an obstacle to his unreasonable suit, they were ready, they 
said, to marry me at once to any one I preferred, either among the 
leading people of our own town, or of any of those in the neighbor- 
hood ; for with their wealth and my good name, a match might be 
looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their sound advice, 
strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando a word 
in reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however 
remote. 

All this caution of mine, which he must have taken for coyness, 
had apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite — for that 
is the name 1 give to his passion for me ; had it been what he de- 
clared it to be, you would not know of it now, because there would 
have been no occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that 
my parents were contemplating marriage for me in order to put an 
end to his hopes of obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure 
additional protectors to watch over me, and this intelligence or sus- 
picion made him act as you shall hear. One night, as I was in my 
chamber with no other companion than a damsel who waited on me, 
with the doors carefully locked lest my honor should be imperilled 
through any carelessness, I know not nor can I conceive how it hap- 
pened, but, with all this seclusion and these precautions, and in the 
solitude and silence of my retirement, I found him standing before 
me, a vision that so astounded me that it deprived my eyes of sight, 
and my tongue of speech. I had no power to utter a cry, nor, I 


CHAPTER XXVI I L 


231 


think, did he give me time to utter one, as he immediately ap- 
proached me, and taking me in his arms (for, overwhelmed as I was, 
I was powerless, I say, to help myself), he began to make such pro- 
fessions to me, that I know not how falsehood could have had the 
power of dressing them up to seem so like truth ; and the traitor 
contrived that his tears should vouch for his words, and his sighs for 
his sincerity. 

I, a poor young creature, the only daughter of the house, ill versed 
in such things, began, I know not how, to think all these lying pro- 
testations true, though without being moved by his sighs and tears 
to anything more than pure compassion ; and so, as the first feeling 
of bewilderment passed away, and I began in some degree to re- 
cover myself, I said to him with more courage than I thought I 
could have possessed, “ If, as 1 am now in your arms, sehor, I were 
in the claws of a fierce lion, and my deliverance could be procured 
by doing or saying anything to the prejudice of my honor, it would 
no more be in my power to do it or say it, than it would be possible 
that what was should not have been ; so then, if you hold my body 
clasped in your arms, I hold my soul secured by virtuous intentions, 
very different from yours, as you will see if you attempt to carry 
them into effect by force. I am your vassal, but I am not your 
slave ; your nobility neither has nor should have any right to dis- 
honor or degrade my humble birth; and low-born peasant as I am, 
I have my self-respect as much as you, a lord and gentleman : with 
me your violence will be to no purpose, your wealth will have no 
weight, your words will have no power to deceive me, nor your 
sighs or tears to soften me : were I to see any of the things I speak 
of in him whom my parents gave me as a husband, his will should 
be mine, and mine should be bounded by his ; and my honor bein^ 
preserved even though my inclinations were not gratified, I would 
willingly yield him what you, senor, would now obtain by force; 
and this I say lest you should suppose that any but my lawful hus- 
band shall ever win anything of me.” — “ If that,” said this disloyal 
gentleman, “be the only scruple you feel, fairest Dorothea” (for 
That is the name of this unhappy being), “see here I give you my 
hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from which nothing is hid, and 
this image of Our Lady you have here, be witnesses of this 
pledge.” 

When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorothea, he 
showed fresh agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his 
former suspicion, but he was unwilling to interrupt the story, 
and wished to hear the end of what he already all but knew, 
so he merely said, What ! is Dorothea your name, sehor a ? 
I have heard of another of the same name who can perhaps 
match your misfortunes. But proceed ; by-and-by I may tell 
you something that will astonish you as much as it will excite 
your compassion.’’ 


232 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Dorothea was struck by Cardenio’s words as well as by his 
strange and miserable attire, and begged him if he knew any- 
thing concerning her to tell it to her at once, for if fortune 
had left her any blessing it was courage to bear whatever 
calamity might fall upon her, as she felt sure in her own mind 
that none could reach her capable of increasing in any degree 
what she endured already. 

I would not let the occasion pass, senora,” replied Cardenio, 
of telling you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, 
but so far there has been no opportunity, nor is it of any im- 
portance to you to know it.” 

Be it as it may ! ” replied Dorothea. To go on with my 
story : ” 

Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber, placed 
it as a witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding words 
and extravagant oaths gave me his promise to become my husband ; 
though before he had made an end of pledging himself I bade him 
consider well what he was doing, and think of the anger his father 
would feel at seeing him married to a peasant girl and one of his 
vassals; I told him not to let my beauty, such as it was, blind him, 
for that was not enough to furnish an excuse for his transgression ; 
and if in the love he bore me he wished to do me any kindness, it 
would be to leave my lot to follow its course at the level my condi- 
tion required; for marriages so unequal never brought happiness, 
nor did they continue long to afford the enjoyment they began with. 

All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and much more 
which I cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to 
forego his purpose ; he who has no intention of paying does not 
trouble himself about difficulties when he is striking the bargain. 
At the same time I argued the matter briefly in my own mind, say- 
ing to myself, “I shall not be the first who has risen through 
marriage irom a lowly to a lofty station, nor will Don Fernando be 
the first whom beauty or, as is more likely, a blind attachment, has 
led to mate himself below his rank. Then, since I am introducing 
no new usage or practice, I may as well avail myself of the honor 
that chance offers me, for even though his inclination for me should 
not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I shall be, after all, his wife 
before God. And if I strive to repel him by scorn, I can see that, 
fair means failing, he is in a* mood to use force, and I shall be left 
dishonored and without any means of proving my innocence to those 
who can not know how innocently I have come to be in this position ; 
for what arguments would persuade my parents and others that this 
gentleman entered my chamber without my consent?” 

All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a 
moment; but the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed 
to, the tears he shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his 


CHAPTER XXV III, 


233 


high-bred grace, which, accompanied by such signs of genuine love, 
might well have conquered a heart even more free and coy than 
mine — these were the things that more than all began to intiuence 
me and lead me unawares to my ruin. I called my waiting-maid to 
me, that there might be a witness on earth besides those in heaven, 
and again Don Fernando renewed and repeated his oaths, invoked as 
witnesses fresh saints in addition to the former ones, called down 
upon himself a thousand curses hereafter should he fail to keep his 
promise, shed more tears, redoubled his sighs and pressed me closer 
in his arms, from which he had never allowed me to escape ; and so 
I was left by my maid, and ceased to be one, and he became a traitor 
and a perjured man. 

The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come 
so quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire 
had attained its object, the greatest pleasure is to fly from the 
scene of pleasure. I say so because Don Fernando made all haste 
to leave me, and by the adroitness of my maid, who was indeed 
the one who had admitted him, gained the street before daybreak ; 
but on taking leave of me he told me, though not with as much 
earnestness and fervor as when he came, that I might rest assured 
of his faith and of the sanctity and sincerity of his oaths ; and 
to confirm his words he drew a rich ring off his finger and placed it 
upon mine. He then took his departure and I was left, I know not 
whether sorrowful or happy ; all I can say is, I was left agitated and 
troubled in mind and almost bewildered by what had taken place, 
and I had not the spirit, or else it did not occur to me, to chide my 
maid for the treachery she had been guilty of in concealing Don 
Fernando in my chamber; for as yet I was unable to make up my 
mind whether what had befallen me was for good or evil. I told 
Don Fernando at parting, that as I was now his, he might see me on 
other nights in the same way, until it should be his pleasure to let 
the matter become known ; but, except the following night, he came 
no more, nor for more than a month could I catch a glimpse of him 
in the street or in church, while I wearied myself with watching for 
one; although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day 
went out hunting, a pastime he was very fond of. 1 remember well 
how sad and dreary those days and hours were to me ; I remember 
well how I began to doubt as they went by, and even to lose confi- 
dence in the faith of Don Fernando ; and I remember, too, how my 
maid heard those words in reproof of her audacity that she had not 
heard before, and how I was forced to put a constraint on my tears 
and on the expression of my countenance, not to give my parents 
cause to ask me why 1 was so melancholy, and drive me to invent 
falsehoods in reply. But all this was suddenly brought to an end, 
for the time came when all such considerations were disregard<^ii, 
and there was no further question of honor, when my patience gave 
way and the secret of my heart became known abroad. Th-i reason 
was, that a few days later it was reported in the towr, that Don 
Fernando had been married in a neighboring city to a maiden of rare 
beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though 


234 


DON QUIXOTE. 


not so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so brilliant 
a match; it was said, too, that her name was Luscinda, and that at 
the betrothal some strange things had happened. 

Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged 
his shoulders, bit his lips, bent his brows, and before long two 
streams of tears escaped from his eyes. Dorothea, however, 
did not interrupt her story, but went on in these words : 

This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck 
with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I 
scarcely retained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying 
aloud and proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I 
was the victim ; but this transport of rage was for the time checked 
by a resolution I formed, to be carried out the same night, and that 
was to assume this dress, which. I got from a servant of my father’s, 
one of the zagals, as they are called in farmhouses, to whom I con- 
fided the whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accom- 
pany me to the city where I heard m^^ enemy was. He, though he 
remonstrated with me for my boldness, and condemned my resolu- 
tion, when he saw me bent upon my purpose, ottered to bear my 
company, as he said, to the end of the world. I at once packed up 
in a linen pillow-case a woman’s dress, and some jewels and money 
to provide for emergencies, and in the silence of the night, without 
letting my treacherous maid know, I sallied forth from the house, 
accompanied by my servant and abundant anxieties, and on foot set 
out for the city, but borne as it were on wings by my eagerness to 
reach it, if not to prevent what I presumed to be already done, at 
least to call upon Don Fernando to tell me with what conscience he 
had done it. I reached my destination in two days and a half, 
and on entering the city inquired for the house of Luscinda’s parents. 
The first person I asked gave me more in reply than I sought to 
know; he showed me the house, and told me all that had occurred at 
the betrothal of the daughter of the family, an affair of such notoriety 
in the city that it was the talk of every knot of idlers in the street. 
He said that on the night of Don Fernando’s betrothal with Luscinda, 
as soon as she had consented to be his bride by saying “ Yes,” she 
was taken with a sudden faintingfit, and that on the bridegroom ap- 
proaching to unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found 
a paper in her own handwriting, in which she said and declared that 
she could not be Don Fernando’s bride, because she was already 
Cardenio’s, who, according to the man’s account, was a gentleman 
of distinction in the same city ; and that if she had accepted Don Fer- 
nando, it was only in obedience to her parents. In short, he said, 
the words of the paper made it clear she meant to kill herself on the 
completion of the betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an 
{‘11(1 to herself ; all which was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger 
they found somewhere in her rlothes. On seeing this, Don Fer- 
nando, persuaded that Luscinda had befooled, slighted, and trifled 


CHAPTER XX VI IT. 


235 


with him, assailed her before she had recovered from her swoon, 
and tried to stab her with the dagger that had been found, and 
would have succeeded had not her parents and those who were 
present prevented him. It was said, moreover, that Don Fernando 
went away at once, and that Luscinda did not recover from her 
prostration until the next day, when she told her parents how she 
was really the bride of that Cardenio I have mentioned. I learned 
besides that Cardenio, according to report, had been present at the 
betrothal ; and that upon seeing her betrothed contrary to his expec- 
tation, he had quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a let- 
ter declaring the wrong Luscinda had done him, and his intention of 
going where no one should ever see him again. All tliis was a matter 
of notoriety in the city, and every one spoke of it ; esjDecially when it 
became known that Luscjinda was missing from her father’s house 
and from the city, for she was not to be found anywhere, to the dis- 
traction of her parents, who knew not what steps to take to recover 
her.. What I learned revived my hopes, and I was better pleased not 
to have found Don Fernando than to find him married, for it seemed 
to me that the door was not yet entirely shut upon relief in my case, 
and I thought that perhaps Heaven had put this impediment in the 
way of the second marriage, to lead him to recognize his obligations 
under the former one, and reflect that as a Christian he was bound to 
consider his soul above all human objects. All this jKissed through 
my mind, and I strove to comfort myself without comfort, indulging 
in faint and distant hopes of cherishing that life that I now abhor. 

But while I was in the city, uncertain what to do, as I could not 
find Don Fernando, I heard notice* given by the public crier offering 
a great reward to any one who should find me, and giving the par- 
ticulars of my age and of the very dress I wore ; and I heard it said 
that the lad who came with me had taken me away from my father’s 
house ; a thing that cut me to the heart, showing how low my good 
name had fallen, since it was not enough that I should lose it by my 
flight, but they must add with whom I had fled, and that one so 
much beneath me and so unworthy of ray consideration. The instant 
I heard the notice I quitted the city with my servant, who now began 
to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to me, and the same night, 
for fear of discovery, we entered the most thickly wooded part of 
these mountains. But, as is commonly said, one evil calls up 
another, * and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the beginning of 
one still greater, and so it proved in my case ; for my worthy ser- 
vant, until then so faithful and trusty, when he found me in this 
lonely spot, moved more by his own villany than by ray beauty, 
sought to take advantage of the opportunit}’' which these solitudes 
seemed to present him, and with little shame and less fear of God 
and respect for me, began to make overtures to me ; and finding that 
I replied to the effrontery of his proposals with justly severe lan- 
guage, he laid aside the entreaties which he had employed at first, 
and began to use violence. But just Heaven, that seldom fails to 
watch over and aid good intentions, so aided mine that with 

‘ Prov. 133. 


236 


DON QUIXOTE. 


slight strength and with little exertion 1 pushed him over a preci- 
pice, where I left him, whether dead or alive 1 know not; and then, 
with greater speed than seemed possible in my terror and fatigue, I 
made my way into the mountains, without any other thought or pur- 
pose save that of hiding myself among them, and escaping rny father 
and those despatched in search of me by his orders. It is now I 
know not how many months since with this object I came here, 
where I met a herdsman who engaged me as his servant at a place 
in the heart of this Sierra, and all this time I have been serving him 
as herd, striving to keep always afield to hide these locks which have 
now unexpectedly betrayed me. But all my care and pains were 
unavailing, for my master made the discovery that I was not a man, 
and harbored the same base designs as my servant ; and as fortune 
does not always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and I had no 
precipice or ravine at hand down which to fling the master and cure 
his passion, as I had in the servant’s case, I thought it a lesser evil 
to leave him and again conceal myself among these crags, than make 
trial of my strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once 
more I went into hiding to seek for some place where 1 migiit with 
sighs and tears implore Heaven to have pity on my misery, and 
grant me help and strength to escape from it, or let me die among 
the solitudes, leaving no trace of an unhappy being who, by no fault 
of hers, has furnished matter for talk and scandal at home and 
abroad. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED 
TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE 
SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF. 

Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures ; judge 
for yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you 
heard, and the tears that flowed from my eyes, had not suffi- 
cient cause even if I had indulged in them more freely ; and if 
you consider the nature of my misfortune you -will see that 
consolation is idle, as there is no possible remedy for it. All 
I ask of you is, what you may easily and reasonably do, to 
show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the fear 
and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me ; for 
though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure 
of being kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of 
shame at the mere thought that I can not present myself before 
them as they expect, that I had rather banish myself from 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


23 ? 


their sight forever than look them in the face with the reflec* 
tion that they beheld mine stripped of that purity that they 
had a right to expect in me.’’ 

With these words she became silent, and the color that 
overspread her face showed plainly the pain and shame she 
was suffering at heart. In theirs the listeners felt as much 
pity as wonder at her misfortunes ; but as the curate was 
just about to offer her some consolation and advice Cardenio 
forestalled him, saying, “ So then, senora, you are the fair 
Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo ? ” Doro- 
thea was astonished at hearing her father’s name, and at the 
miserable appearance of him who mentioned it, for it has been 
already said how wretchedly clad Cardenio was ; so she said to 
him, “ And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my 
father’s name so well ? For so far, if I remember rightly, I 
have not mentioned it in the whole story of my misfortunes.” 

I am that unhappy being, senora,” replied Cardenio, ‘^whom, 
as you have said, Luscinda declared to be her husband ; I am 
the unfortunate Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him who 
has brought you to your present condition has reduced to the 
state you see me in, bare, ragged, bereft of all human comfort, 
and what is worse, of reason, for I only possess it when Heaven 
is pleased for some short space to restore it to me. I, Dorothea, 
am he who witnessed the wrong done by Don Fernando, and 
waited to hear the ^ Yes ’ uttered by which Luscinda owned 
herself his betrothed : I am he who had not courage enough to 
see how her fainting fit ended, or what came of the paper that 
was found in her bosom, because my heart had not the forti- 
tude to endure so many strokes of ill-fortune at once ; and so 
losing patience I quitted the house, and leaving a letter with 
my host, which I entreated him to place in Luscinda’ s hands, I 
betook myself to these solitudes, resolved to end here the life 
X hated as if it were my mortal enemy. But fate would not 
rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me of my reason, 
perhaps to preserve me for the good fortune I have had in 
meeting you ; for if that which you have just told us be true, 
as I believe it to be, it may be that Heaven has yet in store 
for both of us a happier termination to our misfortunes than 
we look for ; because, seeing that Luscinda can not marry Don 
Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so openly declared, 
and that Don Fernando can not marry her as he is yours, we 
may reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to us what is 


238 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ours, as it is still in existence and not yet alienated or de- 
stroyed. And as we have this consolation springing from no 
very visionary hope or wild fancy, I entreat you, senora, to 
form new resolutions in your better mind, as I mean to do in 
mine, preparing yourself to look forward to happier fortunes ; 
for I swear to you by the faith of a gentleman and a Christian 
not to desert you until I see you in possession of Don Fernando, 
and if I can not by words induce him to recognize his obligation 
to you, in that case to avail myself of the right which my rank as 
a gentleman gives me, and with just cause challenge him on 
account of the injury he has done you, not regarding my own 
wrongs, which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge, while I on 
earth devote myself to yours. 

Cardenio’s words completed the astonishment of Dorothea, 
and not knowing how to return thanks for such an offer, she 
attempted to kiss his feet ; but Cardenio would not permit it, 
and the licentiate replied for both, commended the sound reas- 
oning of Cardenio, and lastly, begged, advised, and urged them 
to come with him to his village, where they might furnish them- 
selves with what they needed, and take measures to discover 
Don Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do what 
seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea 
thanked him, and accepted the kind offer he made them ; and 
the barber, who had been listening to all attentively and in 
silence, on -his part said some kindly words also, and with no 
less good-will than the curate offered his services in any way 
that might be of use to them. He also explained to them in a 
few words the object that had brought them there, and the 
strange nature of Don Quixote’s madness, and how they were 
waiting for his squire, who had gone in search of him. Like 
the recollection of a dream, the quarrel he had had with Don 
Quixote came back to Cardenio’s memory, and he described it 
to the others ; but he was unable to say what the dispute was 
about. 

At this moment they heard a shout, and recognized it as 
coming from Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he 
had left them, was calling aloud to them. They went to meet 
him, and in answer to their inquiries about Don Quixote, he 
told them how he had found him stripped to his shirt, lank, 
yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady Dul- 
cinea ; and although he had told him that she commanded 
him to quit that place and come to El Toboso, Avhere she was 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


239 


expecting him, he had answered that he was determined not to 
appear in the presence of her beauty until he had done deeds to 
make him worthy of her favor ; and if this went on, Sancho 
said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor as in duty 
bound, or even an archbishop, which was the least he could 
be ; for which reason they ought to consider what was to be 
done to get him away from there. The licentiate in reply told 
him not to be uneasy, for they would fetch him away in spite 
of himself. He then told Cardenio and Dorothea what they 
had proposed to do to cure Don Quixote, or at any rate take 
him home ; upon which Dorothea said that she could play the 
distressed damsel better than the barber ; especially as she 
had there the dress in which to do it to the life, and that they 
might trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite 
for carrying out their scheme, for she had read a great many 
books of chivalry, and knew exactly the style in which afflicted 
damsels begged boons' of knights-errant. 

In that case,’’ said the curate, there is nothing more re- 
quired than to set ^bout it at once, for beyond a doubt, fortune 
is declaring itself in our favor, since it lias so unexpectedly 
begun to open a door for your relief, and smoothed the way 
for us to our object.” 

Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petti- 
coat of some rich stuff, and a green mantle of some other fine 
material, and a necklace and other ornaments out of a little 
box, and with these in an instant she so arrayed herself that 
she looked like a great and rich lady. All this, and more, she 
said, she had taken from home in case of need, but that until 
then she had had no occasion to make use of it. They were all 
highly delighted with her grace, air, and beauty, and declared 
Don Fernando to be a man of very little taste when he re- 
jected such charms. But the one who admired her most was 
Sancho Panza, for it seemed to him (what indeed was true) 
that in all the days of his life he had never seen such a lovely 
creature ; and he asked the curate with great eagerness who 
this beautiful lady was, and what she wanted in these out-of- 
the-way quarters. 

This fair lady, brother Sancho,” replied the curate, is no 
less a personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the 
great kingdom of Micomicon, who has come in search of your 
master to beg a boon of him, which is that he redress a wrong 
or injury that a wicked giant has done her ; and from the fame 


240 


DON QUIXOTE. 


as a good knight which your master has acquired far and wide, 
this princess has come from Guinea to seek him.” 

“ A lucky seeking and a lucky finding ! ” said Sancho Panza 
at this ; especially if my master has the good fortune to re- 
dress that injury, and right that wrong, and kill that son of a 
bitch of a giant your worship speaks of ; as kill him he will if 
he meets him, unless, indeed, he happens to be a phantom ; for 
my master has no power at all against phantoms. But one 
thing among others I would beg of you, senor licentiate, which 
is, that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be an arch- 
bishop, for that is what I hn afraid of, your worship would 
recommend him to marry this princess at once ; for in this way 
he will be disabled from taking archbishop’s orders, and will 
easily come into his empire, and I to the end of my desires ; 
I have been thinking over the matter carefully, and by what I 
can make out I find it will not do for me that my master should 
become an archbishop, because I am no good for the Church, 
as I am married ; and for me now, having as I have a wife and 
children, to set about obtaining dispensations to enable me to 
hold a place of profit under the Church, would be endless work ; 
so that, senor, it all turns on my master marrying this lady at 
once — for as yet I do not know her grace, and so I can not call 
her by her name.” 

She is called the Princess Micomicona,” said the curate ; 
for as her kingdom is Micomicon, it is clear that must be her 
name.” 

“ There ’s no doubt of that,” replied Sancho, for I have 
known many to take their name and title from the place 
where they were born and call themselves Pedro of Alcala, 
Juan of tJbeda, and Diego of Valladolid ; and it may be that 
over there in Guinea queens have the same way of taking the 
names of their kingdoms.” 

“ So it may,” said the curate ; and as for your master’s 
marrying, I will do all in my power towards it : ” with which 
Sancho was as much pleased as the curate was amazed at his 
simplicity and at seeing what a hold the absurdities of his 
master had taken of his fancy, for he had evidently persuaded 
himself that he was going to be an emperor. 

By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate’s 
mule, and the barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his face, 
and they now told Sancho to conduct them to where Don 
Quixote was, warning him not to say that he knew either the 


CHAPTER XXrX. 


m 


licentiate or the barber, as his master’s becoming an emperoi 
entirely depended on his not recognizing them; neither the 
curate nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them ; 
Cardenio lest he should remind Don Quixote of the quarrel he 
had with him, and the curate as there was no necessity for his 
presence just yet, so they allowed the others to go on before 
them, w'hile they themselves followed slowly on foot. The 
curate did not forget to instruct Dorothea how to act, but she 
said they might make their minds easy, as everything would 
be done exactly as the books of chivalry required and de- 
scribed. 

They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they 
discovered Don Quixote in a wilderness of rocks, by this time 
clothed, but without his armor ; and as soon as Dorothea saw 
him and was told by Sancho that that was Don Quixote, she 
whipped her palfrey, the Avell-bearded barber following her, 
and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his mule and 
came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting 
with great ease of manner advanced to kneel before the feet 
of Don Quixote ; and though he strove to raise her up, she 
without rising addressed him in this fashion, From this 
spot I will not rise, O valiant and doughty knight, until your 
goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to 
the honor and renown of your person and render a service to 
the most disconsolate and afflicted damsel the sun has seen ; 
and if the might of your strong arm corresponds to the repute 
of your immortal fame, you are bound to aid the helpless be- 
ing who, led by the savor of your renowned name, hath come 
from far distant lands to seek your aid in her misfortunes.” 

I will not answer a word, beauteous lady,” replied Don 
Quixote, “ nor will I listen to anything further concerning you, 
until you rise from the earth.” 

I will not rise, senor,” answered the afflicted damsel, un- 
less of your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me.” 

I grant and accord it,” said Don Quixote, provided with- 
out detriment or prejudice to my king, my country, or her who 
holds the key of my heart and freedom, it may be complied 
with.” 

It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, 
my worthy lord,” said the afflicted damsel ; and here Sancho 
Panza drew close to his master’s ear and said to him very softly, 
“ Your worship may very safely grant the boon she asks ; it ’s 

VoL. I. — 16 


242 


DON QUIXOTE. 


nothing at all ; only to kill a big giant ; and she who asks it 
is the exalted princess Micomicona, queen of the great kingdom 
of Micomicon of Ethiopia.’’ 

Let her be who she may,” replied Don Quixote, I will do 
what is my bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in 
conformity with what I have professed ; ” and turning to the 
damsel he said, Let your great beauty rise, for I grant the 
boon which you would ask of me.” 

Then what I ask,” said the damsel, is that your magnani- 
mous person accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, 
and that you promise not to engage in any other adventure or 
quest until you have avenged me of a traitor who, against all 
human and divine law, has usurped my kingdom.” 

I repeat that I grant it,” replied Don Quixote ; and so, 
lady, you may from this day forth lay aside the melancholy 
that distresses you, and let your failing hopes gather new life 
and strength, for with the help of God and of my arm you will 
soon see yourself restored to your kingdom, and seated upon 
the throne of your ancient and mighty realm, notwithstanding 
and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now 
hands to the work, for, as they say, in delay there is apt to be 
danger.” ^ 

The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss 
his hands ; but Don Quixote, who was in all things a polished 
and courteous knight, would by no means allow it, but made 
her rise and embraced her with great courtesy and politeness, 
and ordered Sancho to look to Eocinante’s girths, and to arm 
him without a moment’s delay. Sancho took down the armor, 
which Avas hung up on a tree like a trophy, and having seen to 
the girths, armed his master in a trice, who as soon as he found 
himself in his armor exclaimed, “ Let us be gone in the name of 
God to bring aid to this great lady.” 

The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to 
hide his laughter and not let his beard fall, for had it fallen 
maybe their fine scheme would have come to nothing ; but now 
seeing the boon granted, and the promptitude with which Don 
Quixote prepared to set out in compliance Avith it, he rose and 
took his lady’s hand, and between them they placed her upon 
the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Eocinante, and the bar- 
ber settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on foot, 
which made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the 

^ Prov. 222. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


248 


want of him now. But he bore all with cheerfulness, being 
persuaded that his master had now fairly started and was just 
on the point of becoming an emperor ; for he felt no doubt at 
all that he would marry this princess, and be king of Micomi- 
con at least. The only thing that troubled him was the reflec- 
tion that this kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and that 
the people they would give him for vassals would all be black ; 
but for this he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he 
to himself, What is it to me if my vassals are blacks ? What 
more have I to do than make a cargo of them and carry them 
to Spain, where I can sell them and get ready money for them, 
and with it buy some title or some office in which to live at ease 
all the days of my life ? Not unless you go to sleep and have n’t 
the wit or skill to turn things to account and sell three, six, 
or ten thousand vassals while you would be talking about it ! 
By God I will stir them up, big and little, or as best I can, and 
let them be ever so black I ’ll turn them into white or yellow. 
Come, come, what a fool I am ! ” ^ And so he jogged on, so 
occupied with his thoughts and easy in his mind that he forgot 
all about the hardship of travelling on foot. 

Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among 
some bushes, not knowing how to join company with the others ; 
but the curate, who was very fertile in devices, soon hit upon a 
way of effecting their purpose, and with a pair of scissors that 
he had in a case he quickly cut off Cardenio’s beard, and put- 
ting on him a gray jerkin of his own he gave him a black cloak, 
leaving himself in his breeches and doublet, while Cardenio’s 
appearance was so different from what it had been that he would 
not have known himself had he seen himse'^ in a mirror. Hav- 
ing effected this, although the others ha^d go. 'e on ahead while 
they were disguising themselves, they easily cj.me out on the 
high road before theL\ for the brambles and awkward places 
they encountered did not allow those on horseback to go as fast 
as those on foot. They then posted themselves on the level 
ground at the outlet of the Sierra, and as soon as Don Quixote 
and his companions emerged from it the curate began to examine 
him very deliberately, as though he were striving to recognize 
him, and after having stared at him for some time he hastened 
towards him with open arms exclaiming, A happy meeting 
with the mirror of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote 

’ Literally, ” I am sucking my fingers.” Shelton and Jervas translate 
literally, and so miss the meaning. 


244 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of La Mancha, the flower and cream of high breeding, the prOi 
tection and relief of the distressed, the quintessence of knights- 
errant ! ’’ And so saying he clasped in his arms the knee of 
Don Quixote’s left leg. He, astonished at the stranger’s words 
and behavior, looked at him attentively, and at length recog- 
nized him, very much surprised to see him there, and made 
great efforts to dismount. This, however, the curate would not 
allow, on which Don Quixote said, Permit me, senor licentiate, 
for it is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so rever- 
end a person as your worship on foot.” 

On no account will I allow it,” said the curate ; your 
mightiness must remain on horseback, for it is on horseback 
you achieve the greatest deeds and adventures that have been 
beheld in our age ; as for me, an unworthy priest, it will serve 
me well enough to mount on the haunches of one of the mules 
of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if they have 
no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed Pe- 
gasus, or on the zebra or charger that bore the famous Moor, 
Muzaraque, who to this day lies enchanted in the great hill of 
Zulema, a little distance from the great Complutum.” ^ 

“ Nor even that will I consent to,^ senor licentiate,” answered 
Don Quixote, and I know it will be the good pleasure of my 
lady the princess, out of love for me, to order her squire to 
give up the saddle of his mule to your worship, and he can sit 
behind if the beast will bear it.” 

“ It will, I am sure,” said the princess, and I am sure, too, 
that I need not order my squire, for he is too courteous and 
too good a Christian to allow a Churchman to go on foot when 
he might be mounted.” 

That he is,” said the barber, and at once alighting, he 
offered his saddle to the curate, who accepted it without much 
entreaty ; but unfortunately as the barber was mounting behind, 
the mule, being as it happened a hired one, which is the same 
thing as saying ill-conditioned, lifted its hind hoofs and let fly 
a couple of kicks in the air, which would have made Master 
Nicholas wish his expedition in quest of Don Quixote at the 
devil had they caught him on the breast or head. As it was, 
they so took hird by surprise that he came to the ground, giving 
so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he could do 

* In the immediate neighborhood of Alcala de Henares. 

’ I have followed here the suggestion of Fernandez Cuesta, for the 
reading in the original edition is obviously corrupt. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


245 


when he found himself without it was to cover his face hastily 
with both his hands and moan that his teeth were knocked 
out. Don Quixote when he saw all that bundle of beard de 
tached, without jaws or blood, from the face of the fallen 
squire, exclaimed, By the living God, but this is a great mir- 
acle ! it has knocked off and plucked the beard from his face 
as if it had been shaved off designedly.’’ 

The curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened 
his scheme, at once pounced upon the beard and hastened with 
it to where Master Nicholas lay, still uttering moans, and draw- 
ing his head to his breast had it on in an instant, muttering over 
him some words which he said were a certain special charm for 
sticking on beards, as they would see ; and as soon as he had 
it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared well bearded and 
whole as before, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure as- 
tonished, and begged the curate to teach him that charm when 
he had an opportunity, as he was persuaded its virtue must 
extend beyond the sticking on of beards, for it was clear that 
where the beard had been stripped off the flesh must have 
remained torn and lacerated, and when it could heal all that it 
must be good for more than beards. 

And so it is,” said the curate, and he promised to teach it 
to him on the first opportunity. They then agreed that for the 
present the curate should mount, and that the three should ride 
by turns until they reached the inn, which might be about six 
leagues from where they were.* 

Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the 
princess, and the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the bar- 
ber, and Sancho Panza, Don Quixote said to the damsel, Let 
your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing to 
you ; ” but before she could answer the licentiate said, “ To- 
wards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course ? 
Is it perchance towards that of Micomicon ? It must be, or 
else I know little about kingdoms.” 

She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to 
answer Yes,” so she said, Yes, senor, my way lies towards 
that kingdom.” 

In that case,” said the curate, we must pass right through 
my village, and there your worship will take the road to Car- 
tagena, where you will be able to embark, fortune favoring ; and 

* The original says " two leagues,” but the context shows it must have 
been at least thrice as far. 


246 


DON QUIXOTE. 


if the wind be fair and the sea smooth and tranquil, in some^ 
what less than nine years you may come in sight of the great 
lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is little more than a hun- 
dred days’ journey this side of your highness’s kingdom.” 

Your worship is mistaken, senor,” said she ; “ for it is not 
two years since I set out from it, and though I never had good 
weather, nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed for, 
and that is my Lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose fame 
came to my ears as soon as I set foot in Spain, and impelled 
me to go in search of him, to commend myself to his courtesy, 
and intrust the justice of my cause to the might of his invin- 
cible arm.” 

Enough ; no more praise,” said Don Quixote at this, for I 
hate all flattery ; and though this may not be so, still language 
of the kind is offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, 
senora, that whether it has might or not, that which it may or 
may not have shall be devoted to your service even to death ; 
and now, leaving this to its proper season, I would ask the senor 
licentiate to tell me what it is that has brought him into these 
parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly clad that I am filled 
with amazement.” 

I will answer that briefly,” replied the curate ; you must 
know then, Senor Don Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend 
and barber, and I were going to Seville to receive some money 
that a relative of mine who went to the Indies many years ago 
had sent me, and not such a small sum but that it was over sixty 
thousand pieces of eight, full weight, which is something ; and 
passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by four foot- 
pads, who stripped us even to our beards, and them they stripped 
off so that the barber found it necessary to put on a false one, 
and even this young man here ” — pointing to Cardenio — they 
completely transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes 
in the neighborhood that those who attacked us belong to a 
number of gafley slaves who, they say, were set free almost on 
the very same spot by a man of such valor that, in spite of the 
commissary and of the guards, he released the whole of them ; 
and beyond all doubt he must have been out of his senses, or he 
must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some man without heart 
or conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep, the fox 
among the hens, the fly among the honey.^ He has defrauded 

’ Clemencin and Hartzenbusch point out that to let the fly loose " among 
the honey ” would be worse for him than for it, and the latter, gi mg a 
quotation in point from Francisco de Rojas, substitutes " the bear.' 


CHAPTER XXX. 


247 


justice, and opposed his king and lawful master, for he opposed 
his just commands ; he has, I say, robbed the galleys of their 
feet, stirred up the Holy Brotherhood which for many years 
past has been quiet, and, lastly, has done a deed by which his 
soul may be lost without any gain to his body.’^ Sancho had 
told the curate and the barber of the adventure of the galley 
slaves, which, so much to his glory, his master had achieved, 
and hence the curate in alluding to it made the most of it to 
see what would be said or done by Don Quixote ; who changed 
color at every word, not daring to say that it was he who had 
been the liberator of those worthy people. These, then,’^ said 
the curate, ‘^were they who robbed us ; and God in his mercy 
pardon him who would not let them go to the punishment they 
deserved.’^ 


CHAPTER XXX. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR 
DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING. 

The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, 

In faith, then, senor licentiate, he who did that deed was my 
master ; and it was not for want of my telling him beforehand 
and warning him to mind what he was about, and that it was a 
sin to set them at liberty, as they were all on the march there 
because they were special scoundrels.’’ 

“ Blockhead ! ” said Don Quixote at this, it is no business 
or concern of knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in 
affliction, in chains, or oppressed that they may meet on the 
high roads go that way and suffer as they do because of their 
faults or because of their misfortunes. It only concerns them 
to aid them as persons in need of help, having regard to their 
sufferings and not to their rascalities. I encountered a chaplet 
or string of miserable and unfortunate people, and did for them 
what my sense of duty demands of me, and as for the rest be 
that as it may ; and whoever takes objection to it, saving the 
sacred dignity of the senor licentiate and his honored person, I 
say he knows little about chivalry and lies like a whoreson 
villain, and this I will give him to know to the fullest extent 
with my sword ; ” and so saying he settled himself in his stir- 
rups and pressed down his morion; for the barber’s basin^ 


248 


DON QUIXOTE. 


which according to him was Mambrino’s helmet, he carried 
hanging at the saddle-bow until he could repair the damage 
done to it by the galley slaves. 

Dorothea, who w^as shrewd and sprightly, and by this time 
thoroughly understood Don Quixote’s crazy turn, and that all 
except Sancho Panza were making game of him, not to be 
behind the rest said to him, on observing his irritation, Sir 
Knight, remember the boon you have promised me, and that in 
accordance with it you must not engage in any other adventure, 
be it ever so pressing ; calm yourself, for if the licentiate had 
known that the galley slaves had been set free by that uncon- 
quered arm he would have stopped his mouth thrice over, or 
even bitten his tongue three times before he would have said 
a word that tended towards disrespect of your worship.” 

“ That I swear heartily,” said the curate, and I would have 
even plucked off a mustache.” 

“ I will hold my peace, seilora,” said Don Quixote, and I 
will curb the natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and 
will proceed in peace and quietness until I have fulfilled my 
promise ; but in return for this consideration I entreat you to 
tell me, if you have no objection to do so, what is the nature 
of your trouble, and how many, who, and what are the persons 
of whom I am to require due satisfaction, and on whom I am 
to take vengeance on your behalf ? ” 

That I will do with all my heart,” replied Dorothea, if it 
will not be wearisome to you to hear of miseries and mis- 
fortunes.” 

It will not be wearisome, senora,” said Don Quixote ; to 
which Dorothea replied, AVell, if that be so, give me your 
attention.” As soon as she said this, Cardenio and the barber 
drew close to her side, eager to hear what sort of story the 
quick-witted Dorothea would invent for herself ; and Sancho 
did the same, for he was as much taken in by her as his 
master ; and she having settled herself comfortably in the 
saddle, and with the help of coughing and other preliminaries 
taken time to think, began with great sprightliness of manner 
in this fashion : 

“ First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name 
is — ” and here she stopped for a moment, for she forgot the 
name the curate had given her ; but he came to her relief, see- 
ing what her difficulty was, and said, “ It is no wonder, senora, 
that your highness should be confused and embarrassed in 


CHAPTER XXX. 


249 


telling the tale of your misfortunes ; for such afflictions often 
have the effect of depriving the sufferers of memory, so that 
they do not even remember their own names, as is the case 
now with your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called 
the Princess Micomicona, lawful heiress of the great kingdom 
of Micomicon ; and with this cue your highness may now recall 
to your sorrowful recollection all you may wish to tell us.” 

That is the truth,” said the damsel ; but I think • from 
this on I shall have no need of any prompting, and I shall 
bring my true story safe into port, and here it is. The king 
my father, who was called Tinacrio the Sapient, was very 
learned in what they call magic arts, and became aware by 
his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, 
was to die before he did, and that soon after he too was to 
depart this life, and I was to be left an orphan without father 
or mother. But all this, he declared, did not so much grieve 
or distress him as his certain knowledge that a prodigious 
giant, the lord of a great island close to our kingdom, Panda- 
filando of the Scowl by name — for it'is averred that, though 
his eyes are properly placed and straight, he always looks 
askew as if he squinted, and this he does out of malignity, to 
strike fear and terror into those he looks at — that he knew, 
I say, that this giant on becoming aware of my orphan condi- 
tion would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force and strip 
me of all, not leaving me even a small village to shelter me ; 
but that I could avoid all this ruin and misfortune if I were 
willing to marry him ; however, as far as he could see, he 
never expected that I would consent to a marriage so unequal ; 
and he said no more than the truth in this, for it has never 
entered my mind to marry that giant, or any other, let him be 
ever so great or enormous. My father said, too, that when he 
was dead, and I saw Pandafilando about to invade my king- 
dom, I was not to wait and attempt to defend myself, for that 
would be destructive to me, but that I should leave the king- 
dom entirely open to him if I wished to avoid the death and 
total destruction of my good and loyal vassals, for there would 
be no possibility of defending myself against the giant’s devil- 
ish power ; and that I should at once with some of my followers 
set out for Spain, where I should obtain relief in my distress 
on finding a certain knight-errant whose fame by that time 
would extend over the whole kingdom, and who would be 
called, if I remember rightly, Don Azote or Don Gigote.” 


250 


DON QUIXOTE, 


^ Don Quixote/ he must have said, senora,’’ observed Sancho 
at this, “ otherwise called the Knight of the Kueful Counte- 
nance/^ 

‘‘ That is it,’’ said Dorothea ; he said, moreover, that he 
would be tall of stature and lank featured ; and that on his 
right side under the left shoulder, or thereabouts, he would 
have a gray mole with hairs like bristles.” ^ 

On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, Here, 
Sancho my son, bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want 
to see if I am the knight that sage king foretold.” 

What does your worship want to strip for ? ” said Dorothea. 

To see if I have that mole your father spoke of,” answered 
Don Quixote. 

‘‘ There is no occasion to strip,” said Sancho ; “ for I know 
your worship has just such a mole on the middle of your back- 
bone, which is the mark of a strong man.” 

‘‘ That is enough,” said Dorothea, for with friends we must 
not look too closely into trifles ; and whether it be on the 
shoulder or on the backbone matters little ; it is enough if 
there is a mole, be it where it may, for it is all the same flesh ; 
no doubt my good father hit the truth in every particular, and 
I have made a lucky hit in commending myself to Don Quixote ; 
for he is the one my father spoke of, as the features of his 
countenance correspond wuth those assigned to this knight by 
that wide fame he has acquired not only in Spain but in all La 
Mancha ; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna when I heard such 
accounts of his achievements, that at once my heart told me he 
was the very one I had come in search of.” 

But h jw did you land at Osuna, senora,” asked Don Quixote, 
when it is not a seaport ? ” ^ 

But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, 
saying, The princess meant to say that after she had landed 
at Malaga the first place where she heard of your worship was 
Osuna.” 

That is what I meant to say,” said Dorothea. 

“ And that would be only natural,” said the curate. Will 
your majesty please proceed ? ” 

There is no more to add,” said Dorothea, ‘‘ save that in 

* This was the mark from which the ancestor of the Dukes of Medina- 
celi, Fernando de la Cerda, took his name. 

2 This is a sly hit of Cervantes at Mariana the historian, who makes the 
troops despatched against Viriatus land at Orsuna, now Osuna. 


CHAPTER XXX, 


251 


finding Don Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I 
already reckon and regard myself queen and mistress of my 
entire dominions, since of his courtesy and magnanimity he has 
granted me the boon of accompanying me whithersoever 1 may 
conduct him, which will be only to bring him face to face with 
Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may slay him and restore 
to me what has been unjustly usurped by him : for all this 
must come to pass satisfactorily since my good father Tinacrio 
the Sapient foretold it, who likewise left it declared in writing 
in Chaldee or Greek characters (for I can not read them), that 
if this predicted knight, after having cut the giant’s throat, 
should be disposed to marry me, I was to offer myself at once 
without demur as his lawful wife, and yield him possession of 
my kingdom together with my person.” 

What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho ? ” said Don 
Quixote at this. Hearest thou that ? Did I not tell thee 
so ? See how we have already got a kingdom to govern and 
a queen to marry ? ” 

“ On my oath it is so,” said Sancho ; and foul fortune to 
him who won’t marry after slitting Senor Pandahilado’s wind- 
pipe ! And then, how ill-favored the queen is ! I wish the 
fleas in my bed were that sort ! ” and so saying he cut a 
couple of capers in the air with every sign of extreme satis- 
faction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea’s mule, 
and checking it fell on his knees before her, begging her to 
give him her hand to kiss in token of his acknowledgment of 
her as his queen and mistress. Which of the bystanders 
could have helped laughing to see the madness of the master 
and the simplicity of the servant ? Dorothea therefore gave 
her hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her king- 
dom, when Heaven should be so good as to permit her to 
recover and enjoy it, for which Sancho returned thanks in 
words that set them all laughing again. 

This, sirs,” continued Dorothea, is my story ; it only re- 
mains to tell you that of all the attendants I took with me 
from my kingdom I have none left except this well-bearded 
squire, for all were drowned in a great tempest we encoun- 
tered when in sight of port ; and he and I came to land on a 
couple of planks as if by a miracle ; and indeed the whole 
course of my life is a miracle and a mystery as you may have 
observed ; and if I have been over minute in any respect or 
not as precise as I ought, let it be accounted for by what the 


252 


DON QUIXOTE. 


licentiate said at the beginning of my tale, thgt constant and 
excessive troubles deprive the sufferers of their memory.’’ 

They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy 
princess,” said Don Quixote, however great and unexampled 
those which I shall endure in your service may be ; and here I 
confirm anew the boon I have promised you, and I swear to 
go with you to the end of the world until I find myself in the 
presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head I trust by 
the aid of God and of my arm to cut off with the edge of this 
— I will not say good sword, thanks to the Gines de Pasa- 
monte who carried away mine ” — (this he said between his 
teeth, and then continued),^ and when it has been cut off and 
you have been put in peaceful possession of your realm it 
shall be left to your own decision to dispose of your person 
as may be most pleasing to you ; for so long as my memory is 
occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding inthralled 
by her — I say no more — it is impossible for me for a mo- 
ment to contemplate marriage, even with a Phoenix.” 

The last words of his master about not wanting to marry 
were so disagreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he ex- 
claimed with great irritation, By my oath, Senor Don Qui- 
xote, you are not in your right senses ; for how can your 
worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted princess 
as this ? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every 
stone such a piece of luck as is offered you now ? Is my lady 
Dulcinea fairer, perchance ? Not she; nor half as fair; and 
I will even go so far as to say she does not come up to the 
shoe of this one here. A poor chance I have of getting that 
county I am waiting for if your worship goes looking for 
dainties in the bottom of the sea.^ In the devil’s name, marry, 
marry, and take this kingdom that comes to hand without any 
trouble, and when you are king make me a marquis or governor 
of a province, and for the rest let the devil take it all.” 

Don Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against 
his lady Dulcinea, could not endure it, and lifting his pike, 

* Cervantes seems to have intended that Gines de Pasamonte should 
carry off Don Quixote’s sword, as Brunello did Marfisa’s at the siege of 
Albracca. 

®Prov. 60. Pedir cotufas en el golfo — a proverbial expression for 
seeking impossibilities. Cotufa., according to Salvd, is equivalent to 
golosina — a dainty: Clemencin says it is the same as Chvfa., the tuber 
of the Cyparus esculentus., ijeed as an ingredient in horchata., and in other 
ways. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


253 


without saying anything to Sancho or uttering a word, he gave 
him two such thwacks that he brought him to the ground ; and 
had it not been that Dorothea cried out to him to spare him he 
would have no doubt taken his life on the spot. “Do you 
think,” he said to him after a pause, “ you scurvy clown, that 
you are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to 
be always offending and I always pardoning ? Don’t fancy it, 
impious scoundrel, for that beyond a doubt thou art, since thou 
hast set thy tongue going against the peerless Dulcinea. Know 
you not, lout, vagabond, beggar, that were it not for the might 
which she infuses into my arm I should not have strength 
enough to kill a flea ? Say, 0 scoffer with a viper’s tongue, 
what think you has won this kingdom and cut off this giant’s 
head and made you a marquis (for all this I count as already 
accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea, employ- 
ing my arm as the instrument of her achievements ? She 
fights in me and conquers in me, and I live and breathe in 
her, and owe my life and being to her: 0 whoreson scoundrel, 
how ungrateful you are, you see yourself raised from the dust 
of the earth to be a titled lord, and the return you make for so 
great a benefit is to speak evil of her who has conferred it 
upon you ! 

Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master 
said, and rising with some degree of nimbleness he ran to 
place himself behind Dorothea’s palfrey, and from that posi- 
tion he said to his master, “ Tell me, senor ; if your worship is 
resolved not to marry this great princess, it is plain the kingdom 
will not be yours ; and not being so, how can you bestow favors 
upon me ? That is what I complain of. Let your worship at 
any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her here as 
if showered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go 
back to my lady Dulcinea ; for there must have been kings in 
the world who kept mistresses. As to beauty, I have nothing 
to do with it ; and if the truth is to be told, I like them both ; 
though I have never seen the lady Dulcinea.” 

“ How ! never seen her, blasphemous traitor ! ” exclaimed 
Don Quixote ; “ hast thou not just now brought me a message 
from her ? ” 

“ I mean,” said Sancho, “ that I did not see her so much at 
my leisure that I could take particular notice of her beauty, or 
of her charms piecemeal ; but taken in the lump I like her.” 

“Now I forgive thee,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou 


254 


DON QUIXOTE. 


forgive me the injury I have done thee ; for our first impulses 
are not in our control/’ 

That I see,” replied Sancho, “ and with me the wish to 
speak is always the first impulse, and I cannot help saying, 
once at any rate, what I have on the tip of my tongue.” 

For all that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ take heed of 
what thou sayest, for the pitcher goes so often to the well ^ — 
I need say no more to thee.” 

“ Well, well,” said Sancho, God is in heaven, and sees all 
tricks, and will judge who does most harm, I in not speaking 
right, or your worship in doing it.” 

“ That is enough,” said Dorothea ; run, Sancho, and kiss 
your lord’s hand and beg his pardon, and henceforward be 
more circumspect with your praise and abuse ; and say noth- 
ing in disparagement of that lady Tobosa, of whom I know 
nothing save that I am her servant ; and put your trust in 
God, for you will not fail to obtain some dignity so as to live 
like a prince.” 

Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master’s 
hand, which Don Quixote with dignity presented to him, giving 
him his blessing as soon as he had kissed it ; he then bade him 
go on ahead a little, as he had questions to ask him and mat- 
ters of great importance to discuss with him. Sancho obeyed, 
and when the two had gone some distance Don Quixote said 
to him, Since thy return I have had no opportunity or time 
to ask thee many particulars touching thy mission and the 
answer thou hast brought back, and now that chance has 
granted us the time and opportunity, deny me not the happi- 
ness thou canst give me by such good news.” 

Let your worship ask what you will,” answered Sancho, 
for I shall find a way out of all as easily as I found a way in ; 
but I implore you, senor, not to be so revengeful in future.” 

Why dost thou say that, Sancho ? ” said Don Quixote. 

“ I say it,” he returned, “ because those blows just now w’ere 
more because of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us 
both the other night, than for what I said against my lady 
Dulcinea, whom I love and reverence as I would a relic — 
though there is nothing of that about her — merely as some- 
thing belonging to your worship.” 

Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho,” said Don 

* Prov. 33. In full it is, " the pitcher that goes often to the well leaves 
behind either the hyndle or the spout.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


255 


Quixote, for it is displeasing to me ; I have already pardoned 
thee for that, and thou knowest the common saying, ‘ For a 
fresh sin a fresh penance.’ ” ‘ 

While this was going on they saw coming along the road 
they were following a man mounted on an ass, who when he 
came close seemed to be a gypsy ; but Sancho Panza, whose 
eyes and heart were there wherever he saw asses, no sooner be- 
held the man than he knew him to be Gines de Pasamonte ; 
and by the thread of the gypsy he got at the ball, his ass,* 
for it was, in fact. Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to es- 
cape recognition and to sell the ass had disguised himself as a 
gypsy? being able to speak the gypsy language, and many more, 
as well as if .they were his own. Sancho saw him and recog- 
nized him, and the instant he did so he shouted to him, 
“ Ginesillo, you thief, give up my treasure, release my life, 
embarrass thyself not with my repose, quit my ass, leave my 
delight, be off, rip, get thee gone, thief, and give up what is 
not thine.” 

There was no necessity for so many words or objurgations, for 
at the first one Gines jumped down, and at a trot like racing 
speed made off and got clear of them all. Sancho hastened to 
his Dapple, and embracing him he said, How hast thou fared, 
my blessing. Dapple of my eyes, my comrade ? ” all the while 
kissing him and caressing him as if he were a human being. 
The ass held his peace, and let himself be kissed and caressed 
by Sancho without answering a single word. They all came 
up and congratulated him on having found Dapple, Don Qui- 
xote especially, who told him that notwithstanding this he 
would not cancel the order for the three ass-colts, for which 
Sancho thanked him. 

While the two had been going along conversing in this 
fashion, the curate observed to Dorothea that she had shown 
great cleverness, as well in the story itself as in its concise- 
ness, and the resemblance it bore to those of the books of 
chivalry. She said that she had many times amused herself 
reading them ; but that she did not know the situation of the 

»Prov. 177. 

® A reference to the proverb For el hilo se saca el ovillo (114). This 
passage down to ‘‘ Sancho thanked him,” like that describing the theft of 
the ass, was first inserted in Juan de la Cuseta’s second edition. This, 
however, seems to be Cervantes’ own work, as it agrees with c. iv. Pt. II. 
The printer, no doubt, did not see its relevancy, and therefore omitted it 
in the first edition. 


256 


DON QUIXOTE, 


provinces or seaports, and so she had said at hap-hazard that 
she had landed at Osuna. 

So I saw,^’ said the curate, and for that reason I made 
haste to say what I did, by which it was all set right. But is 
it not a strange thing to see how readily this unhappy gentle- 
man believes all these figments and lies, simply because they 
are in the style and manner of the absurdities of his books ? ” 

“ So it is,’’ said Cardenio ; and so uncommon and unex- 
ampled, that were one to attempt to invent and concoct it in 
fiction, I doubt if there be any wit keen enough to imagine it.” 

But another strange thing about it,” said the curate, is 
that, apart from the silly things which this worthy gentleman 
says in connection with his craze, when other .subjects are 
dealt with, he can discuss them in a perfectly rational manner, 
showing that his mind is quite clear and composed ; so that, 
provided his chivalry is not touched upon, no one would take 
him to be anything but a man of thoroughly sound under- 
standing.” 

While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote 
continued his with Sancho, saying, ‘‘ Friend Panza, let us for- 
give and forget as to our quarrels, and tell me now, dismissing 
anger and irritation, where, how, and when didst thou find 
Dulcinea ? What was she doing ? What didst thou say to 
her ? What did she answer ? How did she look when she 
was reading my letter ? Who copied it out for thee ? and 
everything in the matter that seems to thee worth knowing, 
asking, and learning ; neither adding nor falsifying to give me 
pleasure, nor yet curtailing lest you should deprive me of it.” 

Senor,” replied Sancho, “ if the truth is to be told, nobody 
copied out the letter for me, for I carried no letter at all.” 

“ It is as thou sayest,” said Don Quixote, for the note-book 
in which I wrote it I found in my own possession two days 
after thy departure, which gave me very great vexation, as I 
knew not what thou wouldst do on finding thyself without any 
letter ; and I made sure thou wouldst return from the place 
where thou didst first miss it.” 

So I should have done,” said Sancho, if I had not got it 
by heart when your worship read it to me, so that I repeated 
it to a sacristan, who copied it out for me from hearing it, so 
exactly that he said in all the days of his life, though he had 
read many a letter of excommunication, he had never seen ci 
read so pretty a letter as that.” 



“I FOUND HER WINNOWING TWO BUSHELS OF WHEAT IN THE YARD.” 




*»l *■ 


CHAPTER XXXL 


257 


And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho ? ’’ said 
Don Quixote. 

“ No, senor,’^ replied Sancho, for as soon as I had repeated 
it, seeing there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting 
it ; and if I recollect any of it, it is that about ^ Scrubbing,’ I 
mean to say ^ Sovereign Lady,’ and the end ^ Yours till death, 
the Knight of the Kueful Countenance ; ’ and between these 
two I put into it more than three hundred ‘ my souls ’ and 
^ my life’s ’ and ^ my eyes.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXXI.^ 

OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE 

AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER 

INCIDENTS. 

‘•All that is not unsatisfactory to me,” said Don Quixote. 
“ Go on ; thou didst reach her ; and what was that queen of 
beauty doing ? Surely thou didst find her stringing pearls, or 
embroidering some device in gold thread for this her enslaved 
knight.” 

“ I did not,” said Sancho, “ but I found her winnowing two 
bushels of wheat in the yard of her house.” 

“ Then depend upon it,” said Don Quixote, “ the grains of 
that wheat were pearls when touched by her hands ; and didst 
thou look, friend ? was it white wheat or brown ?” 

“ It was neither, but red,” said Sancho. 

“ Then I promise thee,” said Don Quixote, “ that, winnowed 
by her hands, beyond a doubt the bread it made was of the 
whitest ; but go on ; when thou gavest her my letter, did she 
kiss it ? Did she place it on her head ? Did she perform any 
ceremony befitting such a letter, or what did she do ? ” 

“ When I went to give it to her,” replied Sancho, “ she was 
hard at it swaying from side to side with a lot of wheat she 
had in the sieve, and she said to me, ‘ Lay the letter, friend, on 
the top of that sack, for I can not read it until I have done 
sifting all this.’” 

' The division here is very awkwardly managed : chapter xxxi. ought to 
have commenced at " While they were holding this conversation,” in the 
preceding chapter. 

VoL. I. -17 


258 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Discre(3t lady ! said Don Quixote ; that was in order to 
read it at her leisure and enjoy it ; proceed, Sancho ; while she 
was engaged in her occupation what converse did she hold with 
thee ? What did she ask about me, and what answer didst 
thou give ? Make haste ; tell me all, and let not an atom be 
left behind in the ink-bottle/’ 

She asked me nothing,” said Sancho ; but I told her how 
your worship was left doing penance in her service, naked from 
the waist up, in among these mountains like a savage, sleeping 
on the ground, not eating bread off a tablecloth nor combing 
your beard, weeping and cursing your fortune.” 

‘‘ In saying I cursed my fortune thou saidst wrong,” said Don 
Quixote ; for rather do I bless it and shall bless it all the days 
of my life for having made me worthy of aspiring to love so 
lofty a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.” 

And so lofty she is,” said Sancho, that she overtops me 
by more than a hand’s-breadth.” 

“ What ! Sancho,” said Don Quixote, didst thou measure 
with her ? ” 

“I measured in this way,” said Sancho; going to help her 
to put a sack of wheat on the back of an ass, we came so close 
together that I could see she stood more than a good palm over 
me.” 

“Well!” said Don Quixote, “and doth she not of a truth 
accompany and adorn this greatness with a thousand million 
charms of mind ! But one thing thou wilt not deny, Sancho ; 
when thou earnest close to her didst thou not perceive a Sabsean 
odor, an aromatic fragrance, a, I know not what, delicious, 
that I can not find a name for ; I mean a redolence, an exhala- 
tion, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty glover ? ” 

“ All I can say is,” said Sancho, “ that I did perceive a little 
odor, something goaty ; it must have been that she was all in 
a sweat with hard work.” 

“ It could not be that,” said Don Quixote, “ but thou must 
have been suffering from cold in the head, or must have smelt 
thyself ; for I know well what would be the scent of that rose 
among thorns, that lily of the field, that dissolved amber.” 

“ Maybe so,” replied Sancho ; “ there often comes from my- 
self that same odor which then seemed to nie to come from her 
p*ace the lady Dulcinea ; but that ’s no wonder, for one devil 
is like another.” ^ 


' Prov. 176. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


259 


“Well then/^ continued Don Quixote, “now she has done 
sifting the com and sent it to the mill j ^ what did she do 
when she read the letter ? 

“ As for the letter,” said Sancho, “ she did not read it, for 
she said she could neither read nor write ; instead of that she 
tore it up into small pieces, saying that she did not w'ant to 
let any one read it lest her secrets should become known in 
the village, and that what I had told her by word of mouth 
about the love your worship bore her, and the extraordinary 
penance you were doing for her sake, was enough ; and, to 
make an end of it, she told me to tell your worship that she 
kissed your hands, and that she had a greater desire to see 
you than to write to you; and that therefore she entreated 
and commanded you, on sight of this present, to come out of 
these thickets, and to have done with carrying on absurdities, 
and to set out at once for El Toboso, unless something else of 
greater importance should happen, for she had a great desire 
to see your worship. She laughed greatly when I told her 
how your worship was called the Knight of the Kueful Coun- 
tenance ; I asked her if that Biscayan the other day had been 
there ; and she told me he had, and that he was a very honest 
fellow ; I asked her too about the galley slaves, but she said 
she had not seen any yet.” 

“ So far all goes well,” said Don Quixote ; “ but tell me 
what jewel was it that she gave thee on taking thy leave, in 
return for thy tidings of me ? Eor it is a usual and ancient 
custom with knights and ladies errant to give the squires, 
damsels, or dwarfs who bring tidings of their ladies to the 
knights, or of their knights to the ladies, some rich jewel as 
a guerdon for good news,^ and acknowledgment of the mes- 
sage.” 

“ That is likely,” said Sancho, “ and a good custom it was, 
to my mind ; but that must have been in days gone by, for now 
it would seem to be the custom only to give a piece of bread 
and cheese ; because that was what my lady Dulcinea gave me 
over the top of the yard-wall when I took leave of her ; and 
more by token it was sheep’s-milk cheese.” 

“ She is generous in the extreme,” said Don Quixote, “ and 
if she did not give thee a jewel of gold, no doubt it must have 

* A popular phrase like “ Well, that’s settled.” 

* Albricias^ from the Arabic al bashara^ a reward given to the bearef 
of good news. 


260 


DON QUIXOTE. 


been because she had not one to hand there to give thee , but 
sleeves are good after Easter ; ^ I shall see her and all shall be 
made right. But knowest thou what amazes me^ Sancho ? It 
seems to me thou must have gone and come through the air, 
for thou hast taken but little more than three days to go to El 
Toboso and return, though it is more than thirty leagues from 
here to there. From which I am inclined to think that the 
sage magician who is my friend, and watches over my interests 
(for of necessity there is and must be one, or else I should not 
be a right knight-errant), that this same, I say, must have 
helped thee to travel without thy knowledge; for some of 
these sages will catch up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, 
and without his knowing how or in what way it happened, he 
wakes up the next day more than a thousand leagues away 
from the place where he went to sleep. And if it were not 
for this, knights-errant would not be able to give aid to one 
another in peril, as they do at every turn. For a knight, may- 
be, is fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dragon, 
or fierce serpent, or another knight, and gets the worst of the 
battle, and is at the point of death ; but when he least looks 
for it, there appears over against him on a cloud, or chariot of 
fire, another knight, a friend of his, who just before had been 
in England, and who takes his part, and delivers him from 
death ; and at night he finds himself in his own quarters sup- 
ping very much to his satisfaction ; and yet from one place to 
the other will have been two or three thousand leagues. And 
all this is done by the craft and skill of the sage enchanters 
who take care of those valiant knights ; so that, friend San- 
cho, I find no difficulty in believing that thou mayest have 
gone from this place to El Toboso and returned in such a short 
time, since, as I have said, some friendly sage must have 
carried thee through the air without thee perceiving it.” 

That must have been it,” said Sancho, for indeed Eoci- 
nante went like a gypsy’s ass with quicksilver in his ears.” ^ 

Quicksilver ! ” said Don Quixote, ay, and what is more, a 
legion of devils, folk that can travel and make others travel 
without being weary, exactly as the whim seizes them. But put- 

^Prov. 135, i.e. a good thing may be acceptable even out of its proper 
season, as after Easter the weather may be still cold enough to make 
sleeves comfortable. Cf. the Scotch proverb, “ A Yule feast maybe done 
at Pasch.” 

® Alluding to a common device of the gypsy dealers to improve the pace 
of a beast for sale. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


261 


ting this aside, what thinkest thou I ought to do about my 
lady’s command to go and see her ? For though I feel that I 
am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too that I am debarred 
by the boon I have accorded to the princess that accompanies 
us, and the law of chivalry compels me to have regard for my 
word in preference to my inclination ; on the one hand the de- 
sire to see my lady pursues and harasses me, on the other my 
solemn promise and the glory I shall win in this enterprise 
urge and call me ; but what I think I shall do is to travel with 
all speed and reach quickly the place where this giant is, and 
on my arrival I shall cut off his head, and establish the prin- 
cess peacefully in her realm, and forthwith I shall return, to be- 
hold the light that lightens my senses, to whom I shall make 
such excuses that she will be led to approve of my delay, for 
she will see that it entirely tends to increase her glory and 
fame ; for all that I have won, am winning, or shall win by 
arms in this life, comes to me of the favor she extends to me, 
and because I am hers.” 

Ah ! what a sad state your worship’s brains are in ! ” said 
Sancho. Tell me, senor, do you mean to travel all that way 
for nothing, and to let slip and lose so rich and great a match 
as this where they give as a portion a kingdom that in sober 
truth I have heard say is more than twenty thousand leagues 
round about, and abounds with all things necessary to support 
human life, and is bigger than Portugal and Castile put to- 
gether ? Peace, for the love of God ! Blush for what you 
have said, and take my advice, and forgive me, and marry at 
once in the first village where there is a curate ; if not, here is 
our licentiate who will do the business beautifully ; remember, 
I am old enough to give advice, and this I am giving comes 
pat to the purpose ; for a sparrow in the hand is better than a 
vulture on the wing,* and he who has the good to his hand 
and chooses the bad, that the good he complains of may not 
come to him.” ^ 

‘^Look here, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. ^^If thou art 
advising me to marry, in order that immediately on slaying 
the giant I may become king, and be able to confer favors on 
thee, and give thee what I have promised, let me tell thee I 
shall be able very easily to satisfy thy desires without marrying ; 

5 Prov. 167. 

* Prov. 21. Sancho, as he almost always does when it is long, makes 
a muddle of the proverb : the correct form is, " Who has good and chooses 
evil, let him not complain of the evil that comes to him.” 


262 


DON QUIXOTE. 


for before going into battle I will make it a stipulation that, 
if I come out of it victorious, even if I do not marry, they shall 
give me a portion of the kingdom, that I may bestow it upon 
whomsoever I choose, and when they give it to me upon whom 
wouldst thou have me bestow it but upon thee ? ” 

“ That is plain speaking, said Sancho ; but let your wor- 
ship take care to choose it on the sea-coast, so that if I don’t 
like the life, I may be able to ship off my black vassals and 
deal with them as I have said ; don’t mind going to see my 
lady Dulcinea now, but go and kill this giant and let us finish 
off this business ; for by God it strikes me it will be one of 
great honor and great profit.” 

I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Qui- 
xote, “'and I will take thy advice as to accompanying the prin- 
cess before going to see Dulcinea ; but I counsel thee not to 
say anything to any one, or to those who are with us, about 
what we have considered and discussed, for as Dulcinea is so 
decorous that she does not wish her thoughts to be known it is 
not right that I or any one for me should disclose them.” 

“ Well then, if that be so,” said Sancho, “ how is it that your 
worship makes all those you overcome by your arm go to pre- 
sent themselves before my lady Dulcinea, this being the same 
thing as signing your name to it that you love her and are her 
lover ? And as those who go must perforce kneel before her 
and say they come from your worship to submit themselves to 
her, how can the thoughts of both of you be hid ? ” 

“ 0, how silly and simple thou art ! ” said Don Quixote ; 
“ seest thou not, Sancho, that this tends to her greater exalta- 
tion ? For thou must know that according to our way of think- 
ing in chivalry, it is a high honor to a lady to have many 
knights-errant in her service, whose thoughts never go beyond 
serving her for her own sake, and who look for no other reward 
for their great and true devotion than that she should be will- 
ing to accept them as her knights.” 

“ It is with that kind of love,” said Sancho, “ I have heard 
preachers say we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, 
without being moved by the hope of glory or the fear of punish- 
ment ; though for my part, I would rather love and serve him 
for what he could do.” 

“ The devil take thee for a clown ! ” said Don Quixote, “ and 
what shrewd things thou sayest at times ! One would think 
thou hadst studied.” 


263 


CHAPTER XXXL 

In faith, then, I can not even read,’’ answered Sancho. 

Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a while, as 
they wanted to halt and drink at a little spring there was there. 
Don Quixote drew up, not a little to the satisfaction of Sancho, 
for he was by this time weary of telling so many lies, and in 
dread of his master catching him tripping, for though he knew 
that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El Toboso, he had never 
seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on the clothes 
which Dorothea was wearing when they found her, and though 
they were not very good, they were far better than those he put 
off. They dismounted together by the side of the spring, and 
wuth what the curate had provided himself with at the inn they 
appeased, though not very well, the keen appetite they all of 
them brought with them. 

While they were so employed there happened to come by a 
youth passing on his way, who stopping to examine the party 
at the spring, the next moment ran to Don Quixote and clasp- 
ing him round the legs, began to weep freely, saying, 0, senor, 
do you not know me ? Look at me well ; I am that lad Andres 
that your worship released from the oak tree where I was tied.” 

Don Quixote recognized him, and taking his hand he turned 
to those present and said : That your worships may see how 
important it is to have knights-errant to redress the wrongs 
and injuries done by tyrannical and wicked men in this world, 
I may tell you that some days ago passing through a wood, I 
heard cries and piteous complaints as of a person in pain and 
distress ; I immediately hastened, impelled by my bounden 
duty, to the quarter whence the plaintive accents seemed to me 
to proceed, and I found tied to an oak this lad who now stands 
before you, which in my heart I rejoice at, for his testimony 
will not permit me to depart from the truth in any particular. 
He was, I say, tied to an oak, naked from the waist up, anr^ a 
clown, whom I afterwards found to be his master, was scarify- 
ing him by lashes with the reins of his mare. As soon as I 
saw him I asked the reason of so cruel a flagellation. The 
boor replied that he was flogging him because he was his ser- 
vant and because of carelessness that proceeded rather from dis- 
honesty than stupidity ; on which this boy said, ^ Senor, he 
flogs me only because I ask for my wages.’ The master made 
I know not what speeches and explanations, which, though I 
listened to them, I did not accept. In short, I compelled the 
clown to unbind him, and to swear he would take him with him, 


264 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and pay him real by real, and perfumed into the bargain.^ Is 
not all this true, Andres my son ? Didst thou not mark with 
what authority I commanded him, and with what humility he 
promised to do all I enjoined, specified, and required of him ? 
Answer without confusion or hesitation ; tell these gentlemen 
what took place, that they may see and observe that it is as 
great an advantage as I say to have knights-errant abroad.” 

All that your worship has said is quite true,” answered the 
lad ; but the end of the business turned out just the opposite 
of what your worship supposes.” 

“ How ! the opposite ? ” said Don Quixote ; “ did not the 
clown pay thee then?” 

Not only did he not pay me,” replied the lad, but as soon 
as your worship had passed out of the wood and we were alone, 
he tied me up again to the same oak and gave me a fresh flog- 
ging, that left me like a flayed Saint Bartholomew ; and every 
stroke he gave me he followed up with some jest or gibe about 
having made a fool of your worship, and but for the pain I 
was suffering I should have laughed at the things he said. In 
short he left me in such a condition that I have been until 
now in a hospital getting cured of the injuries which that ras- 
cally clown inflicted on me then ; for all which your worship 
is to blame ; for if you had gone your own way and not come 
where there was no call for you, nor meddled in other people’s 
affairs, my master would have been content with giving me 
one or two dozen lashes, and would have then loosed me and 
paid me what he owed me ; but when your worship abused him 
so out of measure, and gave him so many hard words, his 
anger was kindled ; and as he could not revenge himself on 
you, as soon as he saw you had left him the storm burst upon 
me in such a way, that I feel as if I should never be a man 
again as long as I live.” 

The mischief,” said Don Quixote, lay in my going away ; 
for I should not have gone until I had seen thee paid ; because 
I ought to have known well by long experience that there is no 
clown who will keep his word if he finds it will not suit him 
to keep it ; but thou rememberest, Andres, that I swore if he 
did not pay thee I would go and seek him, and find him though 
he were to hide himself in the whale’s belly.” 

“ That is true,” said Andres ; but it was of no use.” 

Thou shalt see now whether it is of use or not,” said 
* See chapter iv. note 1, p. 22. 


CHAPTER XXXI . 


265 


Don Quixote ; and so saying, he got up hastily and bade Sanchc 
bridle E-ocinante, who was browsing while they were eating. 
Dorothea asked him what he meant to do. He replied that he 
meant to go in search of this clown and chastise him for such 
iniquitous conduct, and see Andres paid to the last maravedi, 
despite and in the teeth of all the clowns in the world. To 
which she replied that he must remember that in accordance 
with his promise he could not engage in any enterprise imtil he 
had brought hers to a conclusion ; and that as he knew this 
better than any one, he should restrain his ardor until his return 
from her kingdom. 

That is true,” said Don Quixote, and Andres must have 
patience until my return as you say, sehora ; but I once more 
swear and promise afresh not to stop until I have seen him 
avenged and paid.” 

I have no faith in those oaths,” said Andres ; I would 
rather have now something to help me to get to Seville than 
all the revenges in the world : if you have here anything to 
eat that I can take with me, give it me, and God be with your 
worship and all knights-errant ; and may their errands turn out 
as well for themselves as they have for me.” 

Sancho took out from his store a piece of bread and another 
of cheese, and giving them to the lad he said, Here, take this, 
brother Andres, for we have all of us a share in your mis- 
fortune.” 

Why, what share have you got ? ” asked Andres. 

This share of bread and cheese I am giving you,” answered 
Sancho ; “ and God knows whether I shall feel the want of it 
myself or not ; for I would have you know, friend, that we 
squires to knights-errant have to bear a great deal of hunger 
and hard fortune, and even other things more easily felt than 
told.” 

Andres seized his bread and cheese, and seeing that nobody 
gave him anything more, bent his head, and took hold of the 
roa^, as the saying is. However, before leaving he said to 
Don Quixote, For the love of God, sir knight-errant, if you 
ever meet me again, though you may see them cutting me to 
pieces, give me no aid or succor, but leave me to my mis- 
fortune, which will not be so great but that a greater will come 
to me by being helped by your worship, on whom and all the 
knights-errant that have ever been born God send his curse.” 

Don Quixote was getting up to chastise him, but he took to 


266 


DON QUIXOTE. 


his heels at such a pace that no one attempted to follow him *, 
and mightily chapfallen was Don Quixote at the story of 
Andres, and the others had to take great care to restrain their 
laughter so as not to put him entirely out of countenance. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DON QUIXOTE’s PARTY 
AT THE INN. 

Their dainty repast being finished, they saddled at once, 
and without any adventure worth mentioning they reached 
next day the inn, the object of Sancho Panza’s fear and dread ; 
but though he would have rather not entered it there was no 
help for it. The landlady, the landlord, their daughter, and 
Maritornes, when they saw Don Quixote and Sancho coming, 
went out to welcome them with signs of hearty satisfaction, 
which Don Quixote received with dignity and gravity, and 
bade them make up a better bed for him than the last time : 
to which the landlady replied that if he paid better than he 
did the last time she would give him one fit for a prince. Don 
Quixote said he would, so they made up a tolerable one for 
him in the same garret as before ; and he lay down at once, 
being sorely shaken and in want of sleep. 

Xo sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady 
made at the barber, and seizing him by the beard, said, “ By my 
faith you are not going to make a beard of my tail any longer ; 
you must give me back my tail, for it is a shame the way that 
thing of my husband’s goes tossing about on the floor ; I mean 
the comb that I used to stick in my good tail.” But for all 
she tugged at it the barber would not give it up until the licen- 
tiate told him to let her have it, as there was now no further 
occasion for that stratagem, because he might declare himself 
and appear in his own character, and tell Don Quixote that he 
had fled to this inn when those thieves the galley slaves robbed 
him ; and should he ask for the princess’s squire, they could 
tell him that she had sent him on before her to give notice to 
the people of her kingdom that she was coming, and bringing 
with her the deliverer of them all. On this the barber cheer- 
fully restored the tail to the landlady, and at the same time 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


267 


they returned all the accessories they had borrowed to effect 
Don Quixote’s deliverance. All the people of the inn were 
struck with astonishment at the beauty of Dorothea, and even 
at the comely figure of the shepherd Cardenio. The curate 
made them get ready such fare as there was in the inn, and 
the landlord, in hope of better payment, served them up a 
tolerably good dinner. All this time Don Quixote was asleep, 
and they thought it best not to awaken him, as sleeping would 
now do him more good than eating. 

While at dinner, the company consisting of the landlord, his 
wife, their daughter, Maritornes, and all the travellers, they 
discussed the strange craze of Don Quixote and the manner in 
which he had been found ; and the landlady told them what 
had taken place between him and the carrier ; and then, look- 
ing round to see if Sancho was there, when she saw he was 
not, she gave them the whole story of his blanketing, which 
they received with no little amusement. But on the curate 
observing that it was the books of chivalry which Don Quixote 
had read that had turned his brain, the landlord said, I can 
not understand how that can be, for in truth to my mind there 
is no better reading in the world, and I have here two or three 
of them, with other writings that are the very life, not only 
of myself but of plenty more ; for when it is harvest-time the 
reapers flock here on holidays, and there is always one among 
them who can read and who takes up one of these books, and 
we gather round him, thirty or more of us, and stay listening 
to him with a delight that makes our gray hairs grow young 
again.* At least I can say for myself that when I hear of 
what furious and terrible blows the knights deliver, I am 
seized with the longing to do the same, and I would like to be 
hearing about them night and day.” 

And I just as much,” said the landlady, because I never 
have a quiet moment in my house except when you are listen- 
ing to some one reading ; for then you are so taken up that for 
the time being you forget to scold.” 

That is true,” said Maritornes ; and, faith, I relish hear- 
ing these things greatly too, for they are very pretty ; espe- 
cially when they describe some lady or another in the arms of 
her knight under the orange trees, and the duenna who is 
keeping watch for them half dead with envy and fright ; all 
this I say is as good as honey.” 

* Literally, ‘‘ Rids us of a thousand gray hairs.” 


268 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And you, what do you think, young lady ? ” said the curate 
turning to the landlord’s daughter. 

“ I don’t know indeed, senor,” said she ; “ I listen too, and 
to tell the truth, though I do not understand it, I like hearing 
it; but it is not the blows that my father likes that I like, but 
the laments the knights utter when they are separated from 
their ladies ; and indeed they sometimes make me weep with 
the compassion I feel for them.” 

‘‘ Then you would console them if it was for you they wept, 
young lady ? ” said Dorothea. 

I don’t know what I should do,” said the girl ; ‘‘ I only 
know that there are some of those ladies so cruel that they 
call their knights tigers and lions and a thousand other foul 
names : and, Jesus ! I don’t know what sort of folk they can be, 
so unfeeling and heartless, that rather than bestow a glance 
upon a worthy man they leave him to die or go mad. I don’t 
know what is the good of such prudery ; if it is for honor’s 
sake, why not marry them ? That ’s all they want.” 

“ Hush, child,” said the landlady ; it seems to me thou 
knowest a great deal about these things, and it is not fit for 
girls to know or talk so much.” 

‘^As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering 
him,” said the girl. 

‘‘Well then,” said the curate, “bring me these books, senor 
landlord, for I should like to see them.” 

“ With all my heart,” said he, and going into his own room 
he brought out an old valise secured with a little chain, on 
opening which the curate found in it three large books and 
some manuscripts written in a very good hand. The first that 
he opened he found to be “ Don Cirongilio of Thrace,” and the 
second “ Don Felixmarte of Hircania,” and the other the “ His- 
tory of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordova, with 
the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes.” ^ 

When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at 

* Don Cirongilio de Tracia was by Bernado de Vargas and appeared at 
Seville in 1545 : for Felixmarte de Hircania see Chap, vi., Note 1, 
p. 33. The title of the third is Cronica del Gran Capitan Gonzalo Her- 
nandez de Cordoba y Aguilar., to which is added the life of Diego Garcia 
de Paredes, written by himself. It appeared at Saragossa in 1559. Gon- 
zalo, the reader need hardly be reminded, was the brilliant general whose 
services against the Moors at Granada and the French in Naples were so 
ungratefully repaid by Ferdinand. Garcia d-e Paredes was Gonzalo’s com- 
panion-in-arms in both campaigns. His battered corselet in the Armeria 
at Madrid is as good as a ballad. 


CHAPTER XXXI L 


269 


the barber and said, We want my friend^s housekeeper and 
niece here now.’^ 

Nay,” said the barber, I can do just as well to carry them 
to the yard or to the hearth, and there is a very good fire 
there.” 

What ! your worship would burn my books ! ” said the 
landlord. 

Only these two,” said the curate, Don CirongOio and 
Felixmarte.” 

“ Are my books, then, heretics or phlegmatics that you want 
to burn them ? ” said the landlord. 

Schismatics you mean, friend,” said the barber, not 
phlegmatics.” 

‘‘ That ’s it,” said the landlord ; but if you want to burn 
any, let it be that about the Great Captain and that Diego 
Garcia ; for I would rather have a child of mine burnt than 
either of the others.” 

Brother,” said the curate, those two books are made up 
of lies, and are full of folly and nonsense ; but this of the 
Great Captain is a true history, and contains the deeds of 
Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, who by his many and great 
achievements earned the title all over the world of the Great 
Captain, a famous and illustrious name, and deserved by him 
alone ; and this Diego Garcia de Paredes was a distinguished 
knight of the city of Trujillo in Estremadura, a most gallant 
soldier, and of such bodily strength that with one finger he 
stopped a mill-wheel in full motion ; and posted with a two- 
handed sword ‘ at the foot of a bridge he kept the whole of an 
immense army from passing over it, and achieved such other 
exploits that if, instead of his relating them himself with the 
modesty of a knight and of one writing his own history, some 
free and unbiased writer had recorded them, they would have 
thrown into the shade all the deeds of the Hectors, Achilleses, 
and Bolands.^ 

Tell that to my father,” said the landlord. “ There ’s a 
thing to be astonished at ! Stopping a mill-wheel | By God 
your worship should read what I have read of Felixmarte of 
Hircania, how with one single backstroke he cleft five giants 
asunder through the middle as if they had been made of bean- 

^ i.e. the montante^ marvellous specimens of which may be seen in the 
Armeria at Madrid. 

® Neither of these feats is mentioned in the memoir of Garcia de Paredes 
appended to the life of the Great Captain. 


270 


DON QUIXOTE. 


pods like tke little friars the children make ; ^ and another 
time he attacked a very great and powerful army, in which 
there were more than a million six hundred thousand soldiers, 
all armed from head to foot, and he routed them all as if they 
had been flocks of sheep. And then, what do you say to the 
good Cirongilio of Thrace, that was so stout and bold ; as may 
be seen in the book, where it is related that as he was sailing 
along a river there came up out of the midst of the water against 
him a fiery serpent, and he, as soon as he saw it, flung himself 
upon it and got astride of its scaly shoulders, and squeezed its 
throat with both hands with such force that the serpent, find- 
ing he was throttling it, had nothing for it but to let itself sink 
to the bottom of the river, carrying with it the knight who 
would not let go his hold ; and when they got down there he 
found himself among palaces and gardens so pretty that it was 
a wonder to see ; and then the serpent changed itself into an 
old ancient man, w^ho told him such things as were never 
heard. Hold your peace, senor ; for if you were to hear this 
you would go mad with delight. A couple of figs for your 
Great Captain and your Diego Garcia ! ’’ 

Hearing this Dorothea said in a whisper to Cardenio, Our 
landlord is almost fit to play a second part to Don Quixote.’^ 

I think so,’’ said Cardenio, “ for as he shows, he accepts it 
as a certainty that ever3rthing those books relate took place 
exactly as it is written down ; and the barefooted friars them- 
selves would not persuade him to the contrary.” 

But consider, brother,” said the curate once more, “ there 
never was any Felixmarte of Hircania in the world, nor any 
Cirongilio of Thrace, or any of the other knights of the same 
sort, that the books of chivalry talk of ; the whole thing is 
the fabrication and invention of idle wits, devised by them 
for the purpose you describe of beguiling the time, as your 
reapers do when they read : for I swear to you in all serious- 
ness there never were any such knights in the world, and no 
such exploits or nonsense ever happened anywhere.” 

Try that bone on another dog,” ^ said the landlord ; as if I 
did not know how many make five, and where my shoe pinches 
me ; * don’t think to feed me with pap, for by God I am no 
fool. It is a good joke for your worship to try and persuade 
me that everything these good books say is nonsense and lies, 

* Made by cutting away part of the pod so as to expose the upper beau 
which looks something like a friar’s head in the recess of his cowl. 

* Prov. ISl. » Prov. 252. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


271 


and they printed by the license of the Lords of the Eoyal 
Council, as if they were people who would allow such a lot of 
lies to be printed all together, and so many battle and enchanh 
ments that they take away one’s senses.” 

“ I have told you, friend,” said the curate, that this is done 
to divert our idle thoughts; and as in well-ordered states 
games of chess, fives, and billiards are allowed for the diver- 
sion of those who do not care, or are not obliged, or are unable 
to work, so books of this kind are allowed to be printed, on the 
supposition that, what indeed is the truth, there can be nobody 
so ignorant as to take any of them for true stories ; and if it 
were permitted me now, and the present company desired it, I 
could say something about the qualities books of chivalry should 
possess to be good ones, that would be to the advantage and 
even to the taste of some ; but I hope the time will come when 
I can communicate my ideas to some one who may be able to 
mend matters ; and in the meantime, senor landlord, believe 
what I have said, and take your books, and make up your 
mind about their truth or falsehood, and much good may they 
do you ; and God grant you may not fall lame of the same foot 
your guest Don Quixote halts on.” 

No fear of that,” returned the landlord ; I shall not be so 
mad as to make a knight-errant of myself ; for I see well enough 
that things are not now as they used to be in those days, when 
they say those famous knights roamed about the world.” 

Sancho had made his appearance in the middle of this con- 
versation, and he was very much troubled and cast down by 
what he heard said about knights-errant being now no longer 
in vogue, and all books of chivalry being folly and lies ; and he 
resolved in his heart to wait and see what came of this journey 
of his master’s, and if it did not turn out as happily as his 
master expected, he determined to leave him and go back to 
his wife and children and his ordinary labor. 

The landlord was carrying away the valise and the books, 
but the curate said to him, ‘‘Wait; I want to see what those 
papers are that are written in such a good hand.” The land- 
lord taking them out handed them to him to read, and he per- 
ceived they were a work of about eight sheets of manuscript, 
with, in large letters at the beginning, the title of “ Novel of 
the Ill-advised Curiosity.” ^ The curate read three or four lines 

* Curious Impertinent^ Shelton’s barbarous translation of Ciirioso 
Impertinentcy is something worse than nonsense, for Gurioso is here a 


272 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to himself, and said, I must say the title of this novel does 
not seem to me a bad one, and I feel an inclination to read it 
all.” To which the landlord replied, Then your reverence 
will do well to read it, for I can tell you that some guests who 
have read it here have been much pleased with it, and have 
begged it of me very earnestly ; but I would not give it, mean- 
ing to return it to the person who forgot the valise, books, and 
papers here, for maybe he will return here some time or other ; 
and though I know I shall miss the books, faith I mean to 
return them ; for though I am an innkeeper, still I am a 
Christian.” 

“ You are very right, friend,” said the curate ; but for all 
that, if the novel pleases me you must let me copy it.” 

With all my heart,” replied the host. 

While they were talking Cardenio had taken up the novel 
and begun to read it, and forming the same opiniori of it as the 
curate, he begged him to read it so that they might all hear it. 

I would read it,” said the curate, if the time would not 
be better spent in sleeping than in reading.” 

It will be rest enough for me,” said Dorothea, to while 
away the time by listening to some tale, for my spirits are not 
yet tranquil enough to let me sleep when it would be season- 
able.” 

‘‘ Well then, in that case,” said the curate, will read it, 
if it were only out of curiosity ; perhaps it may contain some- 
thing pleasant.” 

Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effect, and 
Sancho too ; seeing which, and considering that he would give 
pleasure to all, and receive it himself, the curate said, Well 
then, attend to me every one, for the novel begins thus.” 

substantive. There is, of course, no concise English translation for the 
title ; the nearest approach to one would be, perhaps, The inquisitive man 
v)ho had no business to be so. 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


273 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF ILL-ADVISED 
CURIOSITY.” 

In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in the province called 
Tuscany, there lived two gentlemen of wealth and quality, Anselmo 
and Lothario, such great friends that by way of distinction they were 
called by all that knew them “The two Friends.” They were un- 
married, young, of the same age and of the same tastes, which was 
enough to account for the reciprocal friendship between them. An- 
selmo, it is true, was somewhat more inclined to seek pleasure in 
love than Lothario, for whom the pleasures of the chase had more 
attraction ; but on occasion Anselmo would forego his own tastes to 
yield to those of Lothario, and Lothario would surrender his to fall 
in with those of Anselmo, and in this way their inclinations kept 
pace one with the other with a concord so perfect that the best regu- 
lated clock could not surpass it. 

Anselmo was deep in love with a high-born and beautiful maiden 
of the same city, the daughter of parents so estimable, and so es- 
timable herself, that he resolved, with the approval of his friend 
Lothario, without whom he did nothing, to ask her of them in 
marriage, and did so, Lothario being the bearer of the demand, and 
conducting the negotiation so much to the satisfaction of his friend 
that in a short time he was in possession of the object of his desires, 
and Camilla so happy in having won Anselmo for her husband, that 
she gave thanks unceasingly to Heaven and to Lothario, by whose 
means such good fortune had fallen to her. The first few days, those 
of a wedding being usually days of merry-making, Lothario fre- 
quented his friend Anselmo’s house as he had been wont, striving to 
do honor to him and to the occasion, and to gratify him in every way 
he could ; but when the wedding days were over and the succession 
of visits and congratulations had slackened, he began purposely to 
leave off going to the house of Anselmo, for it seemed to him, as it 
naturally would to all men of sense, that friends’ houses ought not 
to be visited after marriage with the same frequency as in their 
masters’ bachelor days : because, though true and genuine friendship 
can not and should not be in any way suspicious, still a married 
man's honor is a thing of such delicacy that it is held liable to injury 
from brothers, much more from friends. Anselmo remarked the 
cessation of Lothario's visits, and complained of it to him, saying 
that if he had known that marriage was to keep him from enjoying 
his society as he used, he would have never married ; and that, if by 
the thorough harmony that subsisted between them while he was a 
bachelor they had earned such a sweet name as that of “ The two 
Friends,” he should not allow a title so rare and so delightful to be 
lost through a needless anxiety to act circumspectly; and so he 
entreated liim, if such a phrase was allowable between them, to 
VoL. I. — 18 


274 


DON QUIXOTE. 


be once more master of his house and to come in and go out as for- 
merly, assuring him that his wife Camilla had no other desire or 
inclination than that which he would wish her to have, and that 
knowing how sincerely they loved one another she was grieved to 
see such coldness in him. 

To all this and much more that Anselmo said to Lothario to per- 
suade him to come to his house as he had been in the habit of doing, 
Lothario replied with so much prudence, sense, and judgment, that 
Anselmo was satisfied of his friend’s good intentions, and it was 
agreed that on two days in the week, and on holidays, Lothario 
should come to dine with him ; but though this arrangement was 
made between them Lothario resolved to observe it no further than 
he considered to be in accordance with the honor of his friend, whose 
good name was more to him than his own. He said, and justly, that 
a married man upon whom Heaven had bestowed a beautiful wife 
should consider as carefully what friends he brought to his house as 
what female friends his wife associated with, for what can not be 
done or arranged in the market-place, in church, at public festivals 
or at stations ^ (opportunities that husbands cannot always deny their 
wives), may be easily managed in the house of the female friend or 
relative in whom most confidence is reposed. I..othario said, too, 
that every married man should have some friend who would point 
out to him any negligence he might be guilty of in his conduct, for 
it will sometimes happen that owing to the deep affection the hus- 
band bears his wife either he does not caution her, or, not to vex 
her, refrains from telling her to do or not to do certain things, doing 
or avoiding which may be a matter of honor or reproach to him ; and 
errors of this kind he could easily correct if warned by a friend. 
But where is such a friend to be found as Lothario would have, so 
judicious, so loyal, and so true? 

Of a truth I know not ; Lothario alone was such a one, for with the 
utmost care and vigilance he watched over the honor of his friend, 
and strove to diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of days for 
going to his house according to their agreement, lest the visits of a 
young man, wealthy, high-born, and with the attractions he was con- 
scious of possessing, at the house of a woman as beautiful as Camilla, 
should be regarded with suspicion by the inquisitive and malicious 
eyes of the idle public. For though his integrity and reputation 
might bridle slanderous tongues, still he was unwilling to hazard 
either his own good name or that of his friend ; and for this reason 
most of the days agreed upon he devoted to some other business 
which he pretended was unavoidable ; so that a great portion of the 
day was taken up with complaints on one side and excuses on the 
other. It happened, however, that on -one occasion when the two 
were strolling together through a meadow outside the city, Anselmo 
addressed the following words to Lothario. 

“Thou mayest suppose, Lothario my friend, that 1 am unable to 

* Estaciones — attendances at church for private devotion at other hours 
than those of the celebration of the Mass. Among the scenes of the Ital- 
ian and Spanish tales of intrigue the church plays a leading part. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


275 


give sufficient thanks for the favors God has rendered me in making 
me the son of such parents as mine were, and bestowing upon me 
with no niggard hand what are called the gifts of nature as well as 
those of fortune, and above all for what he has done in giving me 
thee for a friend and Camilla for a wife — two treasures that I value, 
if not as highly as I ought, at least as highly as I am able. And yet, 
with all these good things, which are commonly all that men need 
to enable them to live happily, I am the most discontented and dis- 
satisfied man in the whole world ; for, I know not how long since, I 
have been harassed and oppressed by a desire so strange and so 
unusual, that I wonder at myself and blame and chide myself when 
I am alone, and strive to stifle it and hide it from my own thoughts, 
and with no better success than if I were endeavoring deliberately to 
publish it to all the world; and as, in short, it must come out, I 
would confide it to thy safe keeping, feeling sure that by this means, 
and by thy readiness as a true friend to afford me relief, I shall soon 
find myself freed from the distress it causes me, and that thy care 
will give me happiness in the same degree as my own folly has 
caused me misery.” 

The words of Anselmo struck Lothario with astonishment, unable 
as he was to conjecture the purport of such a lengthy prelude and 
preamble ; and though he strove to imagine what desire it could be 
that so troubled his friend, his conjectures were all far from the 
truth, and to relieve the anxiety which this perplexity was causing 
him, he told him he was doing a flagrant injustice to their great 
friendship in seeking circuitous methods of confiding to him his 
most hidden thoughts, for he well knew he might reckon upon his 
counsel in diverting them, or his help in carrying them into effect. 

“ That is the truth,” replied Anselmo, “ and relying upon that 
I will tell thee, friend Lothario, that the desire which harasses me is 
that of knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as perfect 
as I think her to be ; and I can not satisfy myself of the truth on this 
point except by testing her in such a way that the trial may prove 
the purity of her virtue as the fire proves that of gold ; because I am 
persuaded, my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in proportion 
as she is or is not tempted; and that she alone is strong who does 
not yield to the promises, gifts, tears, and importunities of earnest 
lovers ; for what thanks does a woman deserve for being good if no 
one urges her to be bad, and what wonder is it that she is reserved 
and circumspect to whom no opportunity is given of going wrong, 
and who knows she has a husband that will take her life the first 
time he detects her in an impropriety? I do not therefore hold her 
who is virtuous through fear or want of opportunity in the same 
estimation as her who comes out of temptation and trial with a 
crown of victory ; and so, for these reasons and many others that I 
could give thee to justify and support the opinion I hold, I am 
desirous th.at my wife Camilla should pass this crisis, and be refined 
and tested by the fire of finding herself wooed and solicited, and by 
one worthy to set his affections upon her ; and if she comes out, as I 
know she will, victorious from this struggle, 1 shall look upon my 


276 


DON QUIXOTE. 


o^ood fortune as unequalled, I shall be able to say that the cup of 
iny desire is full, and that the virtuous woman of whom the sage 
says, ‘ Who shall find her?’ * has fallen to my lot. And if the result 
be the contrary of what I expect, in the satisfaction of knowing that 
I have been right in my opinion, I shall bear without complaint the 
pain which my so dearly bought experience will naturally cause me. 
And, as nothing of all thou wilt urge in opposition to my wish will 
avail to keep me from carrying it into efifect, it is my desire, friend 
Lothario, that thou shouldst consent to become tlie instrument for 
effecting this purpose that I am bent upon, for I will afford thee 
opportunities to that end, and nothing shall be wanting that I may 
think necessary for the pursuit of a virtuous, honorable, modest, and 
high-minded woman. And among other reasons, 1 am induced to 
intrust this arduous task to thee by the consideration that if Camilla 
be conquered by thee the conquest will not be pushed to extremes, 
but only far enough to account that accomplished which from a 
sense of honor will be left undone; thus I shall not be wronged in 
anything more than intention, and my wrong will remain buried in 
the integrity of thy silence, which I know well will be as lasting as 
that of deatli in what concerns me. If, therefore, thou wouldst have 
me enjoy what can be called life, thou wilt at once engage in this 
love struggle, not lukewarmly nor slothfully, but with the energy 
and zeal that my desire demands, and with the loyalty our friendship 
assures me of.” 

Such were the words Anselmo addressed to Lothario, who listened 
to them with such attention that, except to say what has been already 
mentioned, he did not open his lips until the other had finished. 
Then perceiving that he had no more to say, after regarding him 
for a while, as one would regard something never before seen that 
excited wonder and amazement, he said to him, “ I can not persuade 
myself, Anselmo my friend, that what thou hast said to me is not in 
jest; if 1 thought that thou wert speaking seriously I would not 
have allowed thee to go so far ; so as to put a stop to thy long 
harangue by not listening to thee. I verily suspect that either thou 
dost not know me, or I do not know thee ; but no, 1 know well 
thou art Anselmo, and thou knowest that 1 am Lothario ; the mis- 
fortune is, it seems to me, that thou art not the Anselmo thou wert, 
and must have thought that I am not the Lothario I should be ; for 
the things that thou hast said to me are not those of that Anselmo 
who was my friend, nor are those that thou demandest of me what 
should be asked of the Lothario thou knowest. True friends will 
prove their friends and make use of them, as a poet has said, usque 
ad aras ; whereby he meant that they will not make use of their 
friendship in things that are contrary to God’s will. If this, then, 
was a heathen’s ^ feeling about friendship, how much more should 
it be a Christian’s, who knows that the divine must not be forfeited 
for the sake of any human friendship ? And if a friend should go 

’ "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.” 
Proverbs xxxi. 10. 

2 i.e. Pericles, in Plutarch on " False Shame.” 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


277 


so far as to put aside his duty tii Heaven to fulfil his duty to his 
friend, it should not be in matters that are trifling or of little mo- 
ment, but in such as affect the friend’s life and honor. Now tell 
me, Anselmo, in which of these two art thou imperilled, that I 
should hazard myself to gratify thee, and do a thing so detestable as 
that thou seekest of me? Neither forsooth ; on the contrary, thou 
dost ask of me, so far as I understand, to strive and labor to rob 
thee of honor and life, and to rob myself of them at the same time ; 
for if I take away thy honor it is plain I take away thy life, as a man 
without honor is worse than dead ; and being the instrument, as thou 
wilt have it so, of so much wrong to thee, shall not I, too, be left 
without honor, and consequently without life? Listen to me, 
Anselmo my friend, and be not impatient to answer me until I have 
said what occurs to me touching the object of thy desire, for there 
will be time enough left for thee to reply and for me to hear.” 

“ Be it so,” said Anselmo, “ say what thou wilt.” 

Lothario then went on to say, “ It seems to me, Anselmo, that 
thine is just now the temper of mind which is always that of the 
Moors, who can never be brought to see the error of their creed by 
quotations from the Holy Scriptures, or by reasons which depend 
upon the examination of the understanding or are founded upon 
the articles of faith, but must have examples that are palpable, easy, 
intelligible, capable of proof, not admitting of doubt, with mathe- 
matical demonstrations that can not be denied, like, ‘ If equals be 
taken from equals, the remainders are equal : ’ and if they do not 
underkand this in words, and indeed they do not, it has to be shown 
to them with the hands, and put before their eyes, and even with all 
this no one succeeds in convincing them of the truth of our holy 
religion. This same mode of proceeding I shall have to adopt with 
thee, for the desire which has sprung up in thee is so absurd and 
remote from everything that has a semblance of reason, that I feel 
it would be a waste of time to employ it in reasoning with thy sim- 
plicity, for at present I will call it by no other name ; and I am even 
tempted to leave thee in thy folly as a punishment for thy pernicious 
desire ; but the friendship I bear thee, which will not allow me to 
desert thee in such manifest danger of destruction, keeps me from 
dealing so harshly by thee. And that thou mayest clearly see this, 
say, Anselmo, hast thou not told me that I must force my suit upon 
a modest Voman, decoy one that is virtuous, make overtures to one 
that is pure-minded, pay court to one that is prudent? Yes, thou 
hast told me so. Then, if thou knowest that thou hast a wife, 
modest, virtuous, pure-minded, and prudent, what is it that thou 
seekest? And if thou believest that she will come forth victorious 
from all my attacks — as doubtless she would — what higher titles 
than those she possesses now dost thou think thou canst bestow upon 
her then, or in what will she be better then than she is now ? Either 
thou dost not hold her to be what thou sayest, or thou knowest not 
what thou dost demand. If thou dost not hold her to be what thou 
sayest, why dost thou seek to prove her instead of treating her as 
guilty in the way that may seem best to thee ? but if she be as 


278 


DON QUIXOTE. 


virtuous as thou believest, it is an uncalled-for proceeding to make trial 
of truth itself, for, after trial, it will but be in the same estimation 
as before. Thus, then, it is conclusive that to attempt things from 
which harm rather than advantage may come to us is the part of 
unreasoning and reckless minds, more especially when they are 
things which we are not forced or compelled to attempt, and which 
show from afar that it is plainly madness to attempt them. 

“ Difficulties are attempted either for the sake of God or for the 
sake of the world, or for both ; those undertaken for God’s sake are 
those which the saints undertake when they attempt to live the lives 
of angels in human bodies ; those undertaken for the sake of the 
world are those of the men who traverse such a vast expanse of 
water, such a variety of climates, so many strange countries, to 
acquire what are called the blessings of fortune ; and those under- 
taken for the sake of God and the world together are those of brave 
soldiers, Mffio no sooner do they see in the enemy’s wall a breach as 
wide as a cannon ball could make, than, casting aside all fear, with- 
out hesitating, or heeding the manifest peril that threatens them, 
borne onward by the desire of defending their faith, their country, 
and their king, they fling themselves dauntlessly into the midst of 
the thousand opposing deaths that await them. Such are the things 
that men are wont to attempt, and there is honor, glory, gain, in 
attempting them, however full of difficulty and peril they may be ; 
but that which thou sayest it is thy wish to attempt and cany out 
will not will thee the glory of God nor the blessings of fortune nor 
fame among men ; for even if the issue be as thou wouldst have it, 
thou wilt be no happier, richer, or more honored than thou art this 
moment; and if it be otherwise thou wilt be reduced to misery 
greater than can be imagined, for then it will avail thee nothing to 
reflect that no one is aware of the misfortune that has befallen thee ; 
it will suffice to torture and crush thee that thou knowest it thyself. 
And in confirmation of the truth of what I say, let me repeat to thee 
a stanza made by the famous poet Luigi Tansillo at the end of the 
first part of his ‘ Tears of Saint Peter,’ which says thus : 

The anguish and the shame but greater grew 
In Peter's heart as morning slowly came ; 

No eye was there to see him, well he knew, 

Yet he himself was to himself a shame ; 

Exposed to all men’s gaze, or screened from view, 

A noble heart will feel the pang the same ; 

A prey to shame the sinning soul will be, 

Though none but heaven and earth its shame can see. 

Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrow, but rather 
thou wilt shed tears unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of 
blood from the heart, like those shed by that simple doctor our poet 
tells us of, that tried the test of the cup, which the wise Rinaldo, 
better advised, refused to do ; ^ for though this may be a poetic 

* “ Our poet ” was, of course, Ariosto ; but Cervantes has confounded 
two different stories in Canto 43. It was not the doctor but a cavalier, 


CHAPTER XXX III, 


279 


fiction it contains a moral lesson worthy of attention and study and 
imitation. Moreover by what I am about to say to thee thou wilt be 
led to see the great error thou w’ouldst commit. 

“Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made thee 
master and lawful owner of a diamond of the finest quality, with the 
excellence and purity of which all the lapidaries that had seen it 
had been satisfied, saying with one voice and common consent that 
in purity, quality, and fineness, it was all that a stone of the kind 
could possibly be, thou thyself too being of the same belief, as 
knowing nothing to the contrary ; would it be reasonable in thee to 
desire to take that diamond and place it between an anvil and a 
hammer, and by mere force of blows and strength of arm try if it 
were as hard and as fine as they said? And if thou didst, and if the 
stone should resist so silly a test, that would add nothing to its value 
or reputation ; and if it were broken, as it might be, would not all 
be lost? Undoubtedly it would, leaving its owner to be rated as a 
fool in the opinion of all. Consider, then, Anselmo my friend, that 
Camilla is a diamond of the finest quality as well in thy estimation 
as in that of others, and that it is contrary to reason to expose her 
to the risk of being broken ; for if she remain intact she can not rise 
to a higher value than she now possesses ; and if she give way and 
be unable to resist, bethink thee now how thou wilt be deprived of 
her, and with what good reason thou wilt complain of thyself for 
having been the cause of her ruin and thine own. Remember there 
is no jewel in the world so precious as a chaste and virtuous woman, 
and that the whole honor of women consists in reputation ; and since 
thy wife’s is of that high excellence that thou knowest, where- 
fore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in question? Remember, 
my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal, and that impedi- 
ments are not to be placed in her way to make her trip and fall, but 
that they should be removed, and her path left clear of all obstacles, 
so that without hinderance she may run her course freely to attain 
the desired perfection, which consists in being virtuous. Naturalists 
tell us that the ermine is a little animal which has a fur of purest 
white, and that when the hunters wish to take it, they make use of 
this artifice. Having ascertained the places which it frequents and 
passes, they stop the way to them with mud, and then rousing it, 
drive it towards the spot, and as soon as the ermine comes to the 
mud it halts, and allows itself to be taken captive rather than pass 
through the mire, and spoil and sully its whiteness, which it values 
more than life and liberty. The virtuous and chaste woman is an 
ermine, and whiter and purer than snow is the virtue of modesty ; 
and he who wishes her not to lose it, but to keep and preserve it, 
must adopt a course different from that employed with the ermine ; 
he must not put before her the mire of the gifts and attentions of 
persevering lovers, because perhaps — and even without a perhaps 

Rinaldo’s host, who tried the test of the cup. The magic cup, of which 
no husband of a faithless wife could drink without spilling, figures fre- 
quently in old romance. It appears in the ballad of The Boy and the 
Mantle,” and also in another of the King Arthur ballads. 


280 


DON QUIXOTE. 


— she may not have sufficient virtue and natural strength in herself 
to pass through and tread under foot these impediments; they must 
be removed, and the brightness of virtue and the beauty of a fair 
fame must be put before her. A virtuous woman, too, is like a 
mirror of clear shining crystal, liable to be tarnished and dimmed 
by every breath that touches it. She must be treated as relics are ; 
adored, not touched. She must be protected and prized as one pro- 
tects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and flowers, the owner of 
which allows no one to trespass or pluck a blossom ; enough for 
others that from afar and through the iron grating they may enjoy 
its fragrance and its beauty. Finally let me repeat to thee some 
verses that come to my mind ; I heard them in a modern comedy, 
and it seems to me they bear upon the point we are discussing. A 
prudent old man was giving advice to another, the father of a young 
girl, to lock her up, watch over her and keep her in seclusion, and 
among other arguments he used these : 

Woman is a thing of glass ; 

But her brittleness ’t is best 
Not too curiously to test : 

Who knows what may come to pass? 

Breaking is an easy matter, 

And it ’s folly to expose 

What you can not mend to blows ; 

What you can’t make whole to shatter. 

This, then, all may hold as true. 

And the reason’s plain to see; 

For if Danaes there be. 

There are golden showers too. 

“ All that I have said to thee so far, Anselmo, has had reference 
to what concerns thee ; now it is right that I should say something 
of what regards myself ; and if I be prolix, pardon me, for the 
labyrinth into which thou hast entered and from which thou wouldst 
have me extricate thee makes it necessary. 

“ Thou dost reckon me thy friend, and thou wouldst rob me of 
honor, a thing wholly inconsistent with friendship ; and not only 
dost thou aim at this, but thou wouldst have me rob thee of it also. 
That thou wouldst rob me of it is clear, for when Camilla sees that 
I pay court to her as thou requirest, she will certainly regard me as 
a man without honor or right feeling, since I attempt and do a thing 
so much opposed to what I owe to my own position and thy friend^ 
ship. That thou wouldst have me rob thee of it is beyond a doubt, 
for Camilla, seeing that I press my suit upon her, will suppose that 
I have perceived in her something light that has encouraged me to 
make known to her my base desire ; and if she holds herself dis- 
honored, her dishonor touches thee as belonging to her; and hence 
arises what so commonly takes place, that the husband of the adul- 
terous woman, though he may not be aware of or have given any 


CHAPTER XXXI TL 


281 


cause for his wife’s failure in her duty, or (being careless or negli- 
gent) have had it in his power to prevent his dishonor, nevertheless 
is stigmatized by a vile and reproachful name, and in a manner 
regarded with eyes of contempt instead of pity by all who know of 
his wife’s guilt, though they see that he is unfortunate not by his 
own fault, but by the lust of a vicious consort. But I will tell thee 
why with good reason dishonor attaches to the husband of the 
unchaste wife, though he know not that she is so, nor be to blame, 
nor have done anything, or given any provocation to make her so ; 
and be not weary with listening to me, for it will be all for thy 
good. 

“ When God created our first parent in the earthly paradise, the 
Holy Scripture says that he infused sleep into Adam and while he 
slept took a rib from his left side of which he formed our mother 
Eve, and when Adam awoke and beheld her he said, ‘ This is flesh of 
my flesh, and bone of my bone.’ And God said, ‘ For this shall a man 
leave his father and his mother, and they shall be two in one flesh; ’ 
and then was instituted the divine sacrament of marriage, with such 
ties that death alone can loose them. And such is the force and virtue 
of this miraculous sacrament that it makes two different persons one 
and the same flesh ; and even more than this when the virtuous are mar- 
ried ; for though they have two souls they have but one will. And 
hence it follows that as the flesh of the wife is one and the same with 
that of her husband, the stains that may come upon it, or the injuries 
it incurs fall upon the husband’s flesh, though he, as has been said, 
may have given no cause for them ; for as the pain of the foot or any 
member of the body is felt by the whole body, because all is one 
flesh, as the head feels the hurt to the ankle without having caused 
it, so the husband, being one with her, shares the dishonor of the 
wife ; and as all worldly honor or dishonor comes of flesh and blood, 
and the erring wife’s is of that kind, the husband must needs bear his 
part of it and be held dishonored without knowing it. See, then, 
Anselmo, the peril thou art encountering in seeking to disturb the 
peace of thy virtuous consort; see for what an empty and ill-advised 
curiosity thou wouldst rouse up passions that now repose in quiet in 
Ihe breast of thy chaste wife ; reflect that what thou art staking all to 
win is little, and what thou wilt lose so much that I leave it unde- 
scribed, not having the words to express it. But if all I have said be 
not enough to turn thee from thy vile purpose, thou must seek some 
other instrument for thy dishonor and misfortune ; for such I will not 
consent to be, though by this I lose thy friendship, the greatest loss 
that I can conceive.” 

Having said this, the wise and virtuous Lothario was silent, and 
Anselmo, troubled in mind and deep in thought, was unable for a 
while to utter a word in reply; but at length he said, “I have 
listened, Lothario my friend, attentively, as thou hast seen, to what 
thou hast chosen to say to me, and in thy arguments, examples, and 
comparisons I have seen that high intelligence thou dost possess, and 
the perfection of true friendship thou hast reached; and likewise I 
see and confess that if I am not guided by thy opinion, but follow 


282 


DON QUIXOTE. 


my own, I am flying from the good and pursuing the evil. This being 
so, thou must remember that I am now laboring under that infirmity 
which women sometime suffer from, when the craving seizes them to 
eat clay, plaster, charcoal, and things even worse, disgusting to look 
at, much more to eat; so that it will be necessary to have recourse to 
some artifice to cure me ; and this can be easily effected if only thou 
wilt make a beginning, even though it be in a lukewarm and make- 
believe fashion, to pay court to Camilla, who will not be so yielding 
that her virtue will give way at the first attack : with this mere at- 
tempt I shall rest satisfied, and thou wilt have done what our friend- 
ship binds thee to do, not only in giving me life, but in persuading 
me not to discard my honor. And this thou art bound to do for one 
reason alone, that, being, as I am, resolved to apply this test, it is 
not for thee to permit me to reveal my weakness to another, and so 
imperil that honor thou art striving to keep me from losing; and if 
thine may not stand as high as it ought in the estimation of Camilla 
while thou art paying court to her, that is of little or no importance, 
because ere long, on finding in her that constancy which we expect, 
thou canst tell her the plain truth as regards our stratagem, and so 
regain thy place in her esteem ; and as thou art venturing so little, 
and by the venture canst afford me so much satisfaction, refuse not 
to undertake it, even if further difficulties present themselves to 
thee; for, as I have said, if thou wilt only make a beginning I will 
acknowledge the issue decided.” 

Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmo, and not know- 
ing what further examples to offer or arguments to urge in order to 
dissuade him from it, and perceiving that he threatened to confide 
his pernicious scheme to some one else, to avoid a greater evil re- 
solved to gratify him and do what he asked, intending to manage the 
business so as to satisfy Anselmo without corrupting the mind of 
Camilla; so in reply he told him not to communicate his purpose to 
any other, for he would undertake the task himself, and would begin 
it as soon as he pleased. Anselmo embraced him warmly and affec- 
tionately, and thanked him for his offer as if he had bestowed some 
great favor upon him ; and it was agreed between them to set about 
it the next day, Anselmo affording opportunity and time to Lothario 
to converse alone with Camilla, and furnishing him with money and 
jewels to offer and present to her. He suggested, too, that he should 
treat her to music, and write verses in her praise, and if he was un- 
willing to take the trouble of composing them, he offered to do it 
himself. Lothario agreed to all with an intention very different from 
what Anselmo supposed, and with this understanding they returned 
to Anselmo’s house, where they found Camilla awaiting her husband 
anxiously and uneasily, for he was later than usual in returning that 
day. Lothario repaired to his own house, and Anselmo remained in 
his, as well satisfied as Lothario was troubled in mind ; for he could 
see no satisfactory way out of this ill-advised business. That night, 
however, he thought of a plan by which he might deceive Anselmo 
without any injury to Camilla. The next day he went to dine with 
his friend, and was welcomed by Camilla, who received and treated 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


283 


him with great cordiality, knowing the affection her husband felt for 
him. When dinner was over and the cloth removed, Anselmo told 
Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some press- 
ing business, as he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla 
begged him not to go, and Lothario offered to accompany him, but 
nothing could persuade Anselmo, who on the contrary pressed 
Lothario to remain waiting for him as he had a matter of great im- 
portance to discuss with him. At the same time he bade Camilla not 
to leave Lothario alone until he came back. In short he contrived 
to put so good a face on the reason, or the folly, of his absence that 
no one could have suspected it was a pretence. 

Anselmo took his departure, and Camilla and Lothario were left 
alone at the table, for the rest of the household had gone to dinner. 
Lothario saw himself in the lists according to his friend’s wish, and 
facing an enemy that could by her beauty alone vanquish a squadron 
of armed knights; judge whether he had good reason to fear; but 
what he did was to lean his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his 
cheek upon his hand, and, asking Camilla’s pardon for his ill man- 
ners, he said he wished to take a little sleep until Anselmo returned. 
Camilla in reply said he could repose more at his ease in the recep- 
tion-room than in his chair, and begged of him to go in and sleep 
there ; but Lothario declined, and there he remained asleep until the 
return of Anselmo, who finding Camilla in her own room, and Lo- 
thario asleep, imagined that he had stayed away so long as to have 
afforded them time enough for conversation and even for sleep, anti 
was all impatience until Lothario should wake up, that he might go 
out with him and question him as to his success. Everything fell out 
as he wished ; Lothario awoke, and the two at once left the house, 
and Anselmo asked what he was anxious to know, and Lothario in 
answer told him that he had not thought it advisable to declare him- 
self entirely the first time, and therefore had only extolled the charms 
of Camilla, telling her that all the city spoke of nothing else but her 
beauty and wit, for this seemed to him an excellent way of beginning 
to gain her good-will, and render her disposed to listen to him with 
pleasure the next time, thus availing himself of the device the devil 
has recourse to when he would deceive one who is on the watch ; for 
he being the angel of darkness transforms himself into an angel of 
light, and, under cover of a fair seeming, discloses himself at length, 
and effects his purpose if at the beginning his wiles are not discov- 
ered. All this gave great satisfaction to Anselmo, and he said he 
would afford the same opportunity every day, but without leaving the 
house, for he would find things to do at home so that Camilla should 
not detect the plot. 

Thus, then, several days went by, and Lothario, without uttering a 
word to Camilla, reported to Anselmo that he had talked with her 
and that he had never been able to draw from her the slightest indi- 
cation of consent to anything dishonorable, nor even a sign or shadow 
of hope; on the contraiy, he said she threatened that if he did not 
abandon such a wicked idea she would inform her husband of it. 

“So far well,” said Anselmo; “Camilla has thus far resisted 


284 


DON QUIXOTE. 


words ; we must now see how she will resist deeds. I will give you 
to-morrow two thousand crowns in gold for you to offer or even pre- 
sent, and as many more to buy jewels to lure her, for women are 
fond of being becomingly attired and going gayly dressed, and all the 
more so if they are beautiful, however chaste they may be ; and if she 
resists this temptation, I will rest satisfied and will give you no more 
trouble.” 

Lothario replied that now he had begun he would carry on the 
undertaking to the end, though he perceived he was to come out of 
it wearied and vanquished. The next day he received the four 
thousand crowns, and with them four thousand perplexities, for he 
knew not what to say by way of a new falsehood ; but in the end he 
made up his mind to tell him that Camilla stood as firm against gifts 
and promises as against words, and that there was no use in taking 
any further trouble, for the time was all spent to no purpose. 

But chance, directing things in a different manner, so ordered it 
that Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other 
occasions, shut himself into a chamber and posted himself to watch 
and listen through the keyhole to what passed between them, and per- 
ceived that for more than half an hour Lothario did not utter a word 
to Camilla, nor would utter a word though he were to be there for 
an age ; and he came to the conclusion that what his friend had told 
him about the replies of Camilla was all invention and falsehood, and 
to ascertain if it were so, he came out, and calling Lothario aside 
asked him what news he had and in what hutnor Camilla was. Lotha- 
rio replied that he was not disposed to go on with the business, for 
she had answered him so angrily and harshly that he had no heart to 
say anything more to her. 

“Ah, Lothario, Lothario,” said Anselmo, “how ill dost thou meet 
thy obligations to me, and the great confidence I repose in thee ! I 
have been just novv watching through this keyhole, and I have seen 
that thou hast not said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on 
the former occasions thou hast not spoken to her either, and if this 
be so, as no doubt it is, why dost thou deceive me, or wherefore 
seekest thou by craft to deprive me of the means I might find of at- 
taining my desire ? ” 

Anselmo said no more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario 
with shame and confusion, and he, feeling as it were his honor 
touched by having been detected in a lie, swore to Anselmo that he 
would from that moment devote himself to satisfying him without 
any deception, as he would see if he had the curiosity to watch ; 
though he need not take the trouble, for the pains he would take to 
satisfy him would remove all suspicions from his mind. Anselmo 
believed him, and to aftbrd him an opportunity more free and less 
liable to surprise, he resolved to absent himself from his house for 
eight days, betaking himself to that of a friend of his who lived in a 
village not far from the city ; and, the better to account for his de- 
])arture to Camilla, he so arranged it that the friend should send him 
a very pressing invitation. 

Unhappy, short-sighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


285 


thou plotting, what art thou devising ? Bethink thee thou art work- 
ing against thyself, plotting thine own dishonor, devising thine own 
ruin. Thy wife Camilla is virtuous, thou dost possess her in peace 
and quietness, no one assails thy happiness, her thoughts wander not ' 
beyond the walls of thy house, thou art her heaven on earth, the ob- 
ject of her wishes, the ‘fulfilment of her desires, the measure where- 
with she measures her will, making it conform in all things to thine 
and Heaven’s. If, then, the mine of her honor, beauty, virtue, and 
modesty yields thee without labor all the wealth it contains and thou 
canst wish for, why wilt thou dig the earth in search of fresh veins, 
of new unknown treasure, risking the collapse of all, since it but 
rests on the feeble props of her weak nature? Bethink thee that 
from him who seeks impossibilities that which is possible may with 
justice be withheld, as was better expressed by a poet who said : 

’T is mine to seek for life in death, 

Health in disease seek I, 

I seek in prison freedom’s breath, 

In traitors loyalty. 

So Fate that ever scorns to grant 
Or grace or boon to me, 

Since what can never be I want. 

Denies me what might be. 

The next day Anselmo took his departure for the village, leaving 
instructions with Camilla that during his absence Lothario would 
come to look after his house and to dine with her, and that she was 
to treat him as she would himself. Camilla was distressed, as a 
discreet and right-minded woman would be, at the orders her hus- 
band left her, and bade him remember that it was not becoming that 
any one should occupy his seat at the table during his absence, and 
if he acted thus from not feeling confidence that she would be able 
to manage his house, let him try her this time, and he would find by 
experience that she was equal to greater responsibilities. Anselmo 
replied that it was his pleasure to have it so. and that she had only 
to submit and obey. Camilla said she would do so, though against 
her will. 

Anselmo went, and the next day Lothario came to his house, 
where he was received by Camilla with a friendly and modest wel- 
come ; but she never suffered Lothario to see her alone, for she was 
always attended by her men and women servants, especially by a 
handmaid of hers, Leonela byname, to whom she was much attached 
(for they had been brought up together from childhood in her father’s 
house), and whom she had kept with her after her marriage with 
Anselmo. The first three days Lothario did not speak to her, though 
he might have done so when they removed the cloth and the servants 
retired to dine hastily; for such were Camilla’s orders; nay more, 
Leonela had directions to dine earlier than Camilla and never to 
leave her side. She, however, having her thoughts fixed upon other 


286 


DON QUIXOTE. 


things more to her taste, and wanting that time and opportunity for 
her own pleasures, did not always obey her mistress’s commands, 
but on the contrary left them alone, as if they had ordered her to 
do so; but the modest bearing of Camilla, the calmness of her 
countenance, the composure of her aspect, were enough to bridle the 
tongue of Lothario. But the influence which the many virtues of 
Camilla exerted in imposing silence on Lothario’s tongue proved 
mischievous for both of them, for if his tongue was silent his 
thoughts were busy, and could dwell at leisure upon the perfections 
of Camilla’s goodness and beauty one by one, charms enough to 
warm with love a marble statue, not to say a heart of flesh. Lothario 
gazed upon her when he might have been speaking to her, and 
thought how worthy of being loved she was ; and thus reflection 
began little by little to assail his allegiance to Anselmo, and a thou* 
sand times he thought of withdrawing from the city and going where 
Anselmo should never see liim nor he see Camilla. But already the 
delight he found in gazing on her interposed and held him fast. He 
put a constraint upon himself, and struggled to repel and repress the 
pleasure he found in contemplating Camilla; when alone he blamed 
himself for his weakness, called himself a bad friend, nay a bad 
Christian ; then he argued the matter and compared himself with 
Anselmo ; always coming to the conclusion that the folly and rash- 
ness of Anselmo had been worse than his faithlessness, and that if 
he could excuse his intentions as easily before God as with man, 
he need fear no punishment for his offence. 

In short the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the oppor- 
tunity which the blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew 
the loyalty of Lothario ; and giving heed to nothing save the object 
towards which his inclinations led him, after Anselmo had been three 
days absent, during which he had been carrying on a continual strag- 
gle with his passion, he began to make love to Camilla with so much 
vehemence and warmth of language that she was overwhelmed with 
amazement, and could only rise from her place and retire to her room 
without answering him a word. But the hope which always springs 
up with love was not weakened in Lothario by this repelling de- 
meanor; on the contrary his passion for Camilla increased, and she 
discovering in him what she had never expected, knew not what to 
do ; and considering it neither safe nor right to give him the chance 
or opportunity of speaking to her again, she resolved to send, as she 
did that very night, one of her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in 
which she addressed the following words to him. 


CHAPTER XXXIV, 


287 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Ilf WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF THE ILL-ADVISED 

CURIOSITY.’’ 

“It is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general and 
a castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married woman 
looks still worse without her husband unless there are very good 
reasons for it. I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so inca- 
pable of enduring this separation, that unless you return quickly I 
shall have to go for relief to my parents’ house, even if I leave yours 
without a protector ; for the one you left me, if indeed he deserved 
that title, has, I think, more regard to his own pleasure than to what 
concerns you ; as you are possessed of discernment I need say no more 
to you, nor is it flatting I should say more.” 

Anselmo received this letter, and from it he gathered that Lothario 
had already begun his task and that Camilla must have replied to him 
as he would have wished ; and delighted beyond measure at such in- 
telligence he sent word to her not to leave his house on any account, 
as he would very shortly return. Camilla was astonished at Ansel- 
mo’s reply, which placed her in greater perplexity than before, for 
she neither dared to remain in her own house, nor yet to go to her 
parents’ ; for in remaining her virtue was imperilled, and in going 
she was opposing her husband’s commands. Finally she decided 
upon what was the worse course for her, to remain, resolving not to 
fly from the presence of Lothario, that she might not give food for 
gossip to her servants ; and she now began to regret having written 
as she had to her husband, fearing he might imagine that Lothario 
had perceived in her some lightness which had impelled him to lay 
aside the respect he owed her ; but confident of her rectitude she put 
her trust in God and in her own virtuous intentions, with which she 
hoped to resist in silence all the solicitations of Lothario, without say- 
ing anything to her husband so as not to involve him in any quarrel 
or trouble ; and she even began' to consider how to excuse Lothario to 
Anselmo when he should ask her what it was that induced her to write 
that letter. With these resolutions, more honorable than judicious 
or effectual, she remained the next day listening to Lothario, who 
pressed his suit so strenuously that Camilla’s firmness began to waver, 
and her virtue had enough to do to come to the rescue of her eyes and 
keep them from showing signs of a certain tender compassion which 
the tears and appeals of Lothario had awakened in her bosom. Lo- 
thario observed all this, and it inflamed him all the more. In short 
he felt that while Anselmo’s absence afforded time and opportunity 
he must press the siege of the fortress, and so he assailed her self- 
esteem with praises of her beauty, for there is nothing that more 
quickly reduces and levels the castle towers of fair women’s vanity 
than vanity itself upon the tongue of flattery. In fact with the utmost 
assiduity he undermined the rock of her purity with such engines that 


288 


DON QUIXOTE. 


had Camilla been of brass she must have fallen. He wept, he en- 
treated, he promised, he flattered, he importuned, he pretended with 
so much feeling and apparent sincerity, that he overthrew the virtu- 
ous resolves of Camilla and won the triumph he least expected and 
most longed for. Camilla yielded, Camilla fell ; but what wonder if 
the friendship of Lothario could not stand firm ? A clear proof to us 
that the passion of love is to be conquered only by flying from it, and 
that no one should engage in a struggle with an enemy so mighty; 
for divine strength is needed to overcome his human power. Leonela 
alone knew of her mistress’s weakness, for the two false friends and 
new lovers were unable to conceal it. Lothario did not care to tell 
Camilla the object Anselmo had in view, nor that he had afforded him 
the opportunity of attaining such a result, lest she should undervalue 
his love and think that it was by chance and without intending it and 
not of his own accord that he had made love to her. 

A few days later Anselmo returned to his house and did not per- 
ceive what it had lost, that which he so lightly treated and so highly 
prized. He went at once to see Lothario, and found him at home ; 
they embraced each other, and Anselmo asked for the tidings of his 
life or his death. 

“ The tidings I have to give thee, Anselmo my friend,” said 
Lothario, “are that thou dost possess a wife that is worthy to be 
the pattern and crown of all good wives. The words that I have 
addressed to her were borne away on the wind, my promises have 
been despised, my presents have been refused, such feigned tears as 
I shed have been turned into open ridicule. In short, as Camilla is 
the essence of all beauty, so is she the treasure-house where purity 
dwells, and gentleness and modest}" abide with all the virtues that 
can confer praise, honor, and happiness upon a woman. Take back 
thy money, my friend ; here it is, and I have had no need to touch 
it, for the chastity of Camilla yields not to things so base as gifts or 
promises. Be content, Anselmo, and refrain from making further 
proof; and as thou hast passed dryshod through the sea of those 
doubts and suspicions that are and may be entertained of women, 
seek not to plunge again into the deep ocean of new embarrassments, 
or with another pilot make trial of the goodness and strength of the 
bark that Heaven has granted thee for thy passage across the sea 
of this world ; but reckon thyself now safe in port, moor thyself 
with the anchor of sound reflection, and rest in peace until thou art 
called upon to pay that debt which no nobility on earth can escape 
paying.” 

Anselmo was completely satisfied by the words of Lothario, and 
believed them as fully as if they had been spoken by an oracle ; 
nevertheless he begged of him not to relinquish the undertaking, 
were it but for the sake of curiosity and amusement; though thence- 
forward he need not make use of the same earnest endeavors as 
before ; all he wished him to do was to write some verses to her, 
praising her under the name of Chloris, for he himself would give 
her to understand that he was in love with a lady to whom he had 
given that name to enable him to sing her praises with the decorum 


CHAPTER XXXIV, 


289 


due to her modesty; and if Lothario were unwilling to take the 
trouble of writing the verses he would compose them himself. 

“ That will not be necessary,” said Lothario, “ for the muses are 
not such enemies of mine but that they visit me now and then in the 
course of the year. Do thou tell Camilla what thou hast proposed 
about a pretended amour of mine ; as for the verses I vdll make 
them, and if not as good as the subject deserves, they shall be at 
least the best I can produce.” An agreement to this effect was made 
between the friends, the ill-advised one and the treacherous, and An- 
selmo returning to his house asked Camilla the question she already 
wondered he had not asked before — what it was that had caused 
her to write the letter she had sent him. Camilla replied that it had 
seemed to her that Lothario looked at her somewhat more freely than 
when he had been at home ; but that now she was undeceived and 
believed it to have been only her own imagination, for Lothario now 
avoided seeing her, or being alone with her. Anselmo told her she 
might be quite easy on the score of that suspicion, for he knew that 
Lothario was in love with a damsel of rank in the city whom he 
celebrated under the name of Chloris, and that even if he were not, 
his fidelity and their great friendship left no room for fear. Had 
not Camilla, however, been informed beforehand by Lothario that 
this love for Chloris was a pretence, and that he himself had told 
Anselmo of it in order to be able sometimes to give utterance to the 
praises of Camilla herself, no doubt she would have fallen into the 
despairing toils of jealousy ; but being forewarned she received 
the startling news without uneasiness. 

The next day as the three were at table Anselmo asked Lothario 
to recite something of what he had composed for his mistress Chloris ; 
for, as Camilla did not know her, he might safely say what he 
liked. 

“Even did she know her,” returned Lothario, “I would hide 
nothing, for when a lover praises his lady’s beauty, and charges her 
with cruelty, he casts no imputation upon her fair name ; at any rate, 
all I can say is that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of 
this Chloris, which goes thus ; 


SONNET.’ 

At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes 
Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close, 

The weary tale of my unnumbered woes 
To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise. 

And when the light of day returning dyes 
The portals of the east with tints of rose. 

With undiminished force my sorrow flows 
In broken accents and in burning si^hs. 

And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne. 

And on the earth pours down his midday beams, 

’This sonnet, like that in chapter xxiii., was repeated by Cervantes in 
the play of the Casa de los Zelos — Jornada 2. 

VoL. I. — 19 


290 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Noon but renews my wailing and my tears; 

And with the night again goes up my moan. 

Yet ever in my agony it seems 

To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears.” 

The sonnet pleased Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he 
praised it and said the lady was excessively cruel who made no re- 
turn for sincerity so manifest. On which Camilla said, “Then all 
that love-smitten poets say is true ? ” 

“As poets they do not tell the truth,” replied Lothario; “but 
as lovers they are not more defective in expression than they are 
truthful.” 

“There is no doubt of that,” observed Anselmo, anxious to sup- 
port and uphold Lothario’s ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless 
of his design as she was deep in love with Lothario ; and so taking 
delight in anything that was his, and knowing that his thoughts and 
writings had her for their object, and that she herself was the real 
Chloris, she asked him to repeat some other sonnet or verses if he 
recollected any. 

“ I do,” replied Lothario, “ but I do not think it as good as the 
first one, or, more correctly speaking, less bad ; but you can easily 
judge, for it is this. 

SONNET. 

I know that I am doomed ; death is to me 
As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair. 

Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere 

My heart repented of its love for thee. 

If buried in oblivion I should be. 

Bereft of life, fame, favor, even there 
It would be found that I thy image bear 

Deep graven in my breast for all to see. 

This like some holy relic do I prize 
To save me from the fate my truth entails. 

Truth that to thy hard heart its vigor owes. 

Alas for him that under lowering skies. 

In peril o’er a trackless ocean sails. 

Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows.” 

Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had praised the first ; 
and so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he 
was binding himself and making his dishonor secure ; for when 
Lothario was doing most to dishonor him he told him he was most 
honored ; and thus each step that Camilla descended towards the 
depths of her abasement, she mounted, in the opinion of her husband, 
towards the summit of virtue and fair fame. 

It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her 
maid, Camilla said to her, “ I am ashamed to think, my dear Leonela, 
how lightly I have valued myself that I did not compel Lothario to 
purchase by at least some expenditure of time that full possession of 


CHAPTER XXXIV, 


291 


me that I so quickly yielded him of my own free will. I fear that 
he will think ill of my pliancy or lightness, not considering the irre- 
sistible influence he brought to bear upon me.” 

“ Let not that trouble you, my lady,” said Leonela, “ for it does 
not take away the value of the thing given or make it the less pre- 
cious to give it quickly if it be really valuable and worthy of being 
prized ; nay, they are wont to say that he who gives quickly gives 
twice.” * 

“ They say also,” said Camilla, “ that what costs little is valued 
less.” 2 

“ That saying does not hold good in your case,” replied Leonela, 
“ for love, as 1 have heard say, sometimes flies and sometimes walks ; 
with this one it runs, with that it moves slowly ; some it cools, others 
it burns; some it wounds, others it slays; it begins the course of its 
desires, and at the same moment completes and ends it ; in the morn- 
ing it will lay siege to a fortress and by night will have taken it, for 
there is no power that can resist it ; so what are you in dread of, what 
do you fear, when the same must have befallen Lothario, love having 
chosen the absence of my lord as the instrument for subduing you? 
and it was absolutely necessary to complete then what love had re- 
solved upon, without affording the time to let Anselmo return and by 
his presence compel the work to be left unfinished ; for love has no 
better agent for carrying out his designs than opportunity ; and of 
opportunity he avails himself in all his feats, especially at the outset. 
All this I know well myself, more by experience than by hearsay, 
and some day, senora, I will enlighten you on the subject, for I am 
of young flesh and blood too. Moreover, Lady Camilla, you did not 
surrender 3'ourself or yield so quickly but that first you saw Lotha- 
rio’s whole soul in his eyes, in his sighs, in his words, his promises 
and his gifts, and by it and his good qualities perceived how worthy 
he was of your love. This, then, being the case, let not these scru- 
pulous and prudish ideas trouble 3^our imagination, but be assured 
that Lothario prizes you as you do him, and rest content and satisfied 
that as you are caught in the noose of love it is one of worth and merit 
that has taken you, and one that has not only^ the four S’s that they 
say true lovers ought to have,^ but a complete alphabet ; only listen 
to me and you will see how I can repeat it by rote. He is, to my eyes 
and thinking. Amiable, Brave, Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, 
Fond, Gay, Honorable, Illustrious. Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, 
Bolite, Quickwitted, Rich, and the S’s according to the saying, and 
then Tender, Veracious : X does not suit him, for it is a rough letter ; 
Y has been given already ; and Z Zealous for your honor.” 

Camilla laughed at her maid’s alphabet, and perceived her to be 
more experienced in love affairs than she said, which she admitted, 
confessing to Camilla that she had love passages with a young man 
of good birth of the same city. Camilla was uneasy at this, dreading 

» Prov. 67. ^ Prov. 190. 

3 The four S’s that should qualify a lover were sabio^ 50/0, solicitor 
secreto. It is needless to say that Leonela’s alphabet cannot be literally 
translated. 


292 


DON QUIXOTE, 


iest it might prove the means of endangering her honor, and asked 
whether her intrigue had gone beyond words, and she with little 
shame and much effrontery said it had ; for certain it is that lailies’ 
imprudences make servants shameless, who, when they see their mis- 
tresses make a false step, think nothing of going astray themselves, 
or of its being known. All that Camilla could do was to entreat 
Leonela to say nothing about her doings to him whom she called her 
lover, and to conduct her own affairs secretly lest they should come 
to the knowledge of Anselmo or of Lothario. Leonela said she would, 
but kept her word in such a way that she confirmed Camilla’s appre- 
hension of losing her reputation through her means ; for this aban- 
doned and bold Leonela, as soon as she perceived that her mistress’s 
demeanor was not what it was wont to be, had the audacity to intro- 
duce her lover into the house, confident that even if her mistress saw 
him she would not dare to expose him ; for the sins of mistresses 
entail this mischief amon^ others ; they make themselves the slaves 
of their own servants, and are obliged to hide their laxities and de- 
pravities ; as was the case with Camilla, who though she perceived, 
not once but many times, that Leonela was with her lover in some 
room of the house, not only did not dare to chide her, but afforded 
her opportunities for concealing him and removed all difficulties, lest 
he should be seen by her husband. She was unable, however, to 
prevent him from being seen on one occasion, as he sallied forth at 
daybreak, by Lothario, who, not knowing who he was, at first took 
him for a spectre ; but, as soon as he saw him hasten away, muffling 
his face with his cloak and concealing himself carefully and cau- 
tiously, he rejected this foolish idea, and adopted another, which 
would have been the ruin of all had not Camilla found a remedy. 
It did not occur to Lothario that this man he had seen issuing at such 
an untimely hour from Anselmo’s house could have entered it on 
Leonela’s account, nor did he even remember there was such a per- 
son as Leonela ; all he thought was that as Camilla had been light 
and yielding with him, so she had been with another; for this further 
penalty the erring woman’s sin brings with it, that her honor is dis- 
trusted even by him to whose overtures and persuasions she has 
yielded ; and he believes her to have surrendered more easily to 
others, and gives implicit credence to every suspicion that comes into 
his mind. All Lothario’s good sense seems to have failed him at 
this juncture ; all his prudent maxims escaped his memory ; for with- 
out once reflecting rationally, and without more ado, in his impatience 
and in the blindness of the jealous rage that gnawed his heart, and 
dying to revenge himself upon Camilla, who had done him no wrong, 
before Anselmo had risen he hastened to him and said to him, “ Know, 
Anselmo, that for several days past I have been struggling with my- 
self, striving to withhold from thee what it is no longer possible or 
right that I should conceal from thee. Know that Camilla’s fortress 
has surrendered and is ready to submit to my will ; and if I have been 
slow to reveal this fact to thee, it was in order to see if it were some 
light caprice of hers, or if she sought to try me and ascertain if the 
love I began to make to her with thy permission was made with a 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


293 


serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she were what she 
ought to be, and what we both believed her, would have ere this 
given thee information of my addresses ; but seeing that she delays, 
1 believe the truth of the promise she has given me that the next 
time thou art absent from the house she will grant me an interview in 
the closet where thy jewels are kept (and it was true that Camilla 
used to meet him there) ; but I do not wish thee to rush precipitately 
to take vengeance, for the sin is as yet only committed in intention, 
and Camilla’s may change perhaps between this and the appointed 
time, and repentance spring up in its place. As hitherto thou hast 
always followed my advice wholly or in part, follow and observe this 
that i will give thee now, so that, without mistake, and with mature 
deliberation, thou mayest satisfy thyself as to what may seem the 
best course ; pretend to absent thyself for two or three days as thou 
hast been wont to do on other occasions, and contrive to hide thyself 
in the closet; for the tapestries and other things there afford great 
facilities for thy concealment, and then thou wilt see with thine own 
eyes and I with mine what Camilla’s purpose may be. And if it be 
a guilty one, which may be feared rather than expected, with silence, 
prudence, and discretion thou canst thyself become the instrument of 
punishment for the wrong done thee.” 

Anselmo was amazed, overwhelmed, and astounded at the words 
of Lothario, which came upon him at a time when he least expected 
to hear them, for he now looked upon Camilla as having triumphed 
over the pretended attacks of Lothario, and was beginning to enjoy 
the glory of her victory. He remained silent fora considerable time, 
looking on the ground with fixed gaze, and at length said, “Thou 
hast behaved, Lothario, as I expected of thy friendship : I will follow 
thy advice in everything ; do thou as thou wilt, and keep this secret 
as thou seest it should be kept in circumstances so unlooked for.” 

Lothario gave him his word, but after leaving him he repented 
altogether of what he had said to him, perceiving how foolishly he had 
acteS, as he might have revenged himself upon Camilla in some less 
cruel and degrading way. He cursed his want of sense, condemned 
his hasty resolution, and knew not what course to take to undo the 
mischief or find some ready escape from it. At last he decided upon 
revealing all to Camilla, and, as there was no want of opportunity 
for doing so, he found her alone the same day ; but she, as soon as 
she had the chance of speaking to him, said, “ Lothario my friend, I 
must tell thee I have a sorrow in my heart wdiich fills it so that it 
seems ready to burst ; and it will be a wonder if it does not ; for the 
audacity of Leonela has now reached such a pitch that every night 
she conceals a gallant of hers in this house and remains with him till 
morning, at the expense of my reputation ; inasmuch as it is open to 
any on^ to question it who may see him quitting my house at such 
unseasonable hours ; but what distresses me is that I can not punish 
or chide her, for her privity to our intrigue bridles my mouth and 
keeps me silent about hers, while I am "dreading that some catas- 
trophe will come of it.” 

As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device 


294 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to delude him into the idea that the man he had seen going out was 
Leonela’s lover and not hers ; but when he saw how she wept and 
sutfered, and begged him to help her, he became convinced of the 
truth, and the conviction completed his confusion and remorse ; how- 
ever, he told Camilla not to distress herself, as he would take meas- 
ures to put a stop to the insolence of Leonela. At the same time he 
told her what, driven by the fierce rage of jealousy, he had said to 
Anselmo, and how he had arranged to hide himself in the closet that 
he might there see plainly how little she preserved her fidelity to him ; 
and he entreated her pardon for this madness, and her advice as to 
how to repair it, and escape safely from the intricate labyrinth in 
which his imprudence had involved him. Camilla was struck with 
alarm at hearing what Lothario said, and with much anger, and ^reat 
good sense, she reproved him and rebuked his base design and the 
foolish and mischievous resolution he had made ; but as woman has 
by nature a nimbler wit than man for good and for evil, though it is 
apt to fail when she sets herself deliberately to reason, Camilla on 
the spur of the moment thought of a way to remedy what was to all 
appearance irremediable, and told Lothario to contrive that the next 
day Anselmo should conceal himself in the place he mentioned, for 
she hoped from his concealment to obtain the means of their enjoj’^- 
ing themselves for the future without any apprehension ; and without 
revealing her purpose to him entirely she charged him to be careful, 
as soon as Anselmo was concealed, to come to her when Leonela 
should call him, and to all she said to him to answer as he would have 
answered had he not known that Anselmo was listening. Lothario 
pressed her to explain her intention fully, so that he might with more 
certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be needful. 

“ I tell you,” said Camilla, “ there is nothing to take care of except 
to answer me what I shall ask you : ” for she did not wish to explain 
to him beforehand what she meant to do, fearing lest he should be 
unwilling to follow out an idea which seemed to her such a good one, 
and should try or devise some other less practicable plan. 

Lothario then retired, and the next day Anselmo, under pretence 
of going to his friend’s country house, took his departure, and then, 
returned to conceal himself, which he was able to do easily, as Ca- 
milla and Leonela took care to give him the opportunity ; and so he 
placed liimself in hiding in the state of agitation that it may be im- 
agined he would feel wh^o expected to see the vitals of his honor laid 
bare before his eyes, and found himself on the point of losing the 
supreme blessing he thought he possessed in his beloved Camilla. 
Having made sure of Anselmo’s being in his hiding-place, ,Camilla 
and Leonela entered the closet, and the instant she set foot'within it 
Camilla said, with a deep sigh, “Ah ! dear Leonela, would it not be 
better, before I do what I am unwilling you should know lest you 
should seek to prevent it, that you should take Anselmo’s dagger 
that I have asked of you and with it pierce this vile heart of mine ? 
But no ; there is no reason why I should sutfer the punishment of 
another’s fault. I will first know what it is that the bold licentious 
eyes of Lothario have seen in me that could have encouraged him to 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


295 


reveal to me a design so base as that which he has disclosed regard- 
less of his friend and of my honor. Go to the window, Leonela, and 
call him, for no doubt he is in the street waiting to carry out his vile 
project; but mine, cruel it may be, but honorable, shall be carried out 
first.” 

“ Ah, sefiora,” said the crafty Leonela, who knew her part, “ what 
is it you want to do with this dagger? Can it be that you mean to 
take your own life, or Lothario’s ? for whichever you mean to do, it 
will lead to the loss of your reputation and good name. It is better 
to dissemble your wrong and not give this wicked man the chance of 
entering the house now and finding us alone ; consider, senora, we 
are weak women and he is a man, and determined, and as he comes 
with such a base purpose, blind and urged by passion, perhaps be- 
fore you can put yours into execution he may do what will be worse 
for you than taking your life. Ill betide my master, Anselmo, for 
giving such authority in his house to this shameless fellow ! And sup- 
posing you kill him, senora, as I suspect you mean to do, what shall 
we do with him when he is dead ? ” 

“ What, my friend? ” replied Camilla, “ we shall leave him for An- 
selmo to bury him ; for in reason it will be to him a light labor to 
hide his own infamy under ground. Summon him, make haste, for 
all the time I delay in taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me 
an offence against the loyalty I owe my husband.” 

Anselmo was listening to all this, and every word that Camilla 
uttered made him change his mind ; but when he heard that it was 
resolved to kill Lothario his first impulse was to come out and show 
himself to avert such a disaster ; but in his anxiety to sec the issue 
of a resolution so bold and virtuous he restrained himself, intending 
to come forth in time to prevent the deed. At this moment Camilla, 
throwing herself upon a bed that was close by, swooned away, and 
Leonela began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “ Woe is me! that I 
should be fated to have dying here in my arms the flower of virtue 
upon earth, the crown of true wives, the pattern of chastity!” with 
more to the same effect, so that any one who heard her would have 
taken her for the most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in the 
world, and her mistress for another persecuted Penelope. 

Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit, and on 
coming to herself she said, “ Why do you not go, Leonela, to call 
hither that friend, the falsest to his friend the sun ever shone upon 
or night concealed ? Away, run, haste, speed ! lest the fire of my 
wratlT burn itself out with delay, and the righteous vengeance that 
I hope for melt away in menaces and maledictions.” 

“I am just going to call him, senora,” said Leonela; “but you 
must first give me that dagger, lest while I am gone you should by 
means of it give cause to all who love you to weep all their lives.” 

“ Go in peace, dear Leonela, I will not do so,” said Camilla, “ for 
rash and foolish as I may be, to your mind, in defending my honor, 
I am not going to be so much so as that Lucretia who they say killed 
herself without having done anything wrong, and without having 
first killed him on whom the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall 


296 


DON QUIXOTE, 


die, if I am to die ; but it must be after full vengeance upon him 
who has brought me here to weep over audacity that no fault of mine 
gave birth to.” 

Leonela required much pressing before she would go to summon 
Lothario, but at last she went, and while awaiting her return Camilla 
continued, as if speaking to herself, “Good God! would it not have 
been more prudent to have repulsed Lothario, as I have done many a 
time before, than to allow him, as I am now doing, to think me un- 
chaste and vile, even for the short time I must wait until I undeceive 
him ? No doubt it would have been better ; but I should not be avenged, 
nor the honor of my husband vindicated, should he find so clear and 
easy an escape from the strait into which his depravity has led him. 
Let the traitor pay with his life for the temerity of his wanton wishes, 
let the world know (if haply it shall ever come to know) that Ca- 
milla not only preserved her allegiance to her husband, but avenged 
him of the man who dared to wrong him. Still, I think it might be 
better to disclose this to Ansel mo. But then I have called his atten- 
tion to it in the letter I wrote to him in the country, and, if he did 
nothing to prevent the mischief I there pointed out to him, I sup- 
pose it was that from pure goodness of heart and trustfulness he 
would not and could not believe that any thought against his honor 
could harbor in the breast of so stanch a friend ; nor indeed did I 
myself believe it for many days, nor should I have ever believed it 
if his insolence had not gone so far as to make it manifest by open 
presents, lavish promises, and ceaseless tears. But why do I argue 
thus? Does a bold determination stand in need of arguments ? Surely 
not. Then fears avaunt I Vengeance to my aid ! Let the false one 
come, approach, advance, die, yield up his life, and then befall what 
may. Pure I came to him whom Heaven bestowed upon me, pure 
I shall leave him ; and at the worst bathed in my own chaste blood 
and in the foul blood of the falsest friend that friendship ever saw ; ” 
and as she uttered these words she paced the room holding the un- 
sheathed dagger, with such irregular and disordered steps, and such 
gestures that one would have supposed her to have lost her senses, 
and taken her for some violent desperado instead of a delicate 
woman. 

Anselmo, concealed behind some tapestries where he had hidden 
himself, beheld and was amazed at all, and already felt that what 
he had seen and heard was a sufficient answer to even greater sus- 
picions; and he would have been now well pleased if the proof 
afforded by Lothario’s coming were dispensed with, as he feared 
some sudden mishap ; but as he was on the point of showing himself 
and coming forth to embrace and undeceive his wife he paused as 
he saw Leonela returning, leading Lothario. Camilla when she saw 
him, drawing a long line in front of her on the floor with the dagger, 
said to him, “Lothario, pay attention to what I say to thee: if by 
any chance thou darest to cross this line thou seest, or even approach 
it, the instant I see thee attempt it that same instant will I pierce 
my bosom with this dagger that I hold in my hand ; and before thou 
answerest me a word I desire thee to listen to a few from me, and 


CHAPTER XXXI V, 


297 


afterwards thou shalt reply as may please thee. First, I desire thee 
to tell me, Lothario, if thou knowest my husband Ansolmo, and in 
what lij^ht thou regardest him ; and secondly I desire to know if thou 
knowest me too. Answer me this, without embarrassment or reflect- 
ing deeply what thou wilt answer, for they are no riddles I put to 
thee.” 

Lothario was not so dull but that from the first moment when 
Camilla directed him to make Anselmo hide himself he understood 
what she intended to do, and therefore he fell in with her idea so 
readily and promptly that between them they made the imposture 
look more true than truth; so he answered her thus: “I did not 
think, fair Camilla, that thou wei*t calling me to ask questions so 
remote from the object with which I come ; but if it is to defer the 
promised reward thou art doing so, thou mightest have put it off still 
longer, for the longing for happiness gives the more distress the 
nearer comes the hope of gaining it; but lest thou shouldst say that 
I do not answer thy questions, I say that I know thy husband 
Anselmo, and that we have known each other from our earliest 
years ; I will not speak of what thou too knowest, of our friendship, 
that I may not compel myself to testify against the wrong that love, 
the mighty excuse for greater errors, makes me inflict upon him. 
Thee I know and hold in the same estimation as he does, for were it 
not so I had not for a lesser prize acted in opposition to what I owe 
to my station and the holy laws of true friendship, now broken and 
violated by me through that powerful enemy, love.” 

“ If thou dost confess that,” returned Camilla, “ mortal enemy of 
all that rightly deserves to be loved, with what face dost thou ^are 
to come before one whom thou knowest to be the mirror wherein 
he is reflected on whom thou shouldst look to see how unworthy 
thou wrongest him ? But, woe is me, I now comprehend what has 
made thee give so little heed to what thou owest to thyself ; it must 
have been some freedom of mine, for I will not call it immodesty, 
as it did not proceed from any deliberate intention, but from some 
heedlessness such as women are guilty of through inadvertence 
when thev think they have no occasion for reserve. But tell me, 
traitor, wten did I by word or sign give a reply to thy prayers that 
could awaken in thee a shadow of hope of attaining thy base wishes? 
When were not thy professions of love sternly and scornfully re- 
jected and rebuked? When were thy frequent pledges and still 
more frequent gifts believed or accepted ? But as I am persuaded 
that no one can long persevere in the attempt to win love unsustained 
by some hope, I am willing to attribute to myself the blame of thy 
assurance, for no doubt some thoughtlessness of mine has all this 
time fostered thy hopes ; and therefore will I punish myself and in- 
flict upon myself the penalty thy guilt deserves. And that thou 
mayest see that being so relentless to myself 1 cannot possibly be 
otherwise to thee, I have summoned thee to be a witness of the 
sacriflce I mean to offer to the injured honor of my honored husband, 
wroiuj^ed by thee with all the assiduity thou wert capable of. and by 
me too through want of caution in avoiding every occasion, if I have 


298 


DON QUIXOTE. 


given any, of encouraging and sanctioning thy base designs. ^ Once 
more I say the suspicion in my mind that some imprudence of mine 
has engendered these lawless thoughts in thee, is what causes me 
most distress and what I desire most to punish with my own hands, 
for were any other instrument of punishment employed my error 
might become perhaps more widely known; but before I do so, in 
my death I mean to inflict death, and take with me one that will 
fully satisfy my longing for the revenge I hope for and have ; for I 
shall see, wheresoever it may be that I go, the penalty awarded by 
inflexible, unswerving justice on him who has placed me in a 
position so desperate.” 

As she uttered these words, with incredible energy and swiftness 
she flew upon Lothario with the naked dagger, so manifestly bent on 
burying it in his breast that he was almost uncertain whether these 
demonstrations were real or feigned, for he was obliged to have re- 
course to all his skill and strength to prevent her from striking him ; 
and with such reality did she act this strange farce and mystification 
that, to give it a color of truth, she determined to stain it with her 
own blood ; for perceiving, or pretending, that she could not wound 
Lothario, she said, “Fate, it seems, will not grant my just desire 
complete satisfaction, but it will not be able to keep me from satisfy- 
ing it partially at least; ” and making an effort to free the hand with 
the dagger which Lothario held in his grasp, she released it, and 
directing the point to a place where it could not inflict a deep wound, 
she plunged it into her leftside high up close to the shoulder, and 
then allowed herself to fall to the ground as if in a faint. 

Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the catas- 
trophe, and seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in 
her blood they were uncertain as to the true nature of the act. 
Lothario, terrified and breathless, ran in haste to pluck out the 
dagger ; but when he saw how slight the wound was he was relieved 
of his fears and once more admired the subtlety, coolness, and ready 
wit of the fair Camilla ; and the better to support the part he had to 
play he be^an to utter profuse and doleful lamentations over her 
body as if ^e were dead, invoking maledictions not only on himself 
but also on him who had been the means of placing him in such a 
position : and knowing that his friend Anselmo heard him he spoke 
in such a way as to make a listener feel much more pity for him than 
for Camilla, even though he supposed her dead. Leonela took her 
up in her arms and laid her on the bed, entreating Lothario to go in 
quest of some one to attend to her wound in secret, and at the same 
time asking his advice and opinion as to what they should say to 
Anselmo about his lady’s wound if he should chance to return before 
it was healed. He replied they might say what they liked, for he 
was not in a state to give advice that would be of any use ; all he 
could tell her was to try and stanch the blood, as he was going where 
he should never more be seen ; and with every appearance of deep 
grief and sorrow he left the house ; but when he found himself alone, 
and where there was nobody to see him, he crossed himself unceas- 
ingly, lost in wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the consistent 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


299 


acting of Leonela. He reflected how convinced Anselmo would be 
that ne had a second Portia for a wife, and he looked forward 
anxiously to meeting him in order to rejoice together over falsehood 
and truth the most craftily veiled that could possibly be imagined. 

Leonela, as he told her, stanched her lady’s blood, which was no 
more than sufficed to support her deception ; and washing the wound 
with a little wine she bound it up to the best of her skill, talking all 
the time she was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had 
been said before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo that he 
had in Camilla a model of purity. To Leonela's words Camilla added 
her own, calling herself cowardly and wanting in spirit, since she had 
not enough at the time she had most need of it to rid herself of the 
life she so much loathed. She asked her attendant’s advice as to 
whether or not she ought to inform her beloved husband of all that 
had happened, but the other bade her say nothing about it, as she 
would lay upon him the obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario, 
which he could not do but at great risk to himself ; and it was the 
duty of a true wife not to give her husband provocation to quarrel, 
but, on the contrary, to remove it as far as possible from him. 

Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would 
follow her advice, but at any rate it would be well to consider how 
she was to explain the wound to Anselmo, for he could not help 
seeing it ; to which Leonela answered that she did not know how to 
tell a lie even in jest. 

“ How then can I know, my dear? ” said Camilla, “ for I should 
not dare to forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it. 
If we can think of no escape from this difficulty, it will be better to 
tell him the plain truth than that he should find us out in an untrue 
story.” 

“ Be not uneasy, senora,” said Leonela; “between this and to- 
morrow I will think of what we must say to him, and perhaps the 
wound being where it is it can be hidden from his sight, and Heaven 
will be pleased to aid us in a purpose so good and honorable. Com- 
pose yourself, senora, and endeavor to calm your excitement lest my 
ford find you agitated ; and leave the rest to my care and God's, who 
always supports good intentions.” 

Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played 
out the tragedy of the death of his honor, which the performers acted 
with such wonderfully effective truth that it seemed as if they had 
become the realities of the parts they played. He longed for night 
and an opportunity of escaping from the house to go and see his good 
friend Lothario, and with him give vent to his joy over the precious 
pearl he had gained in having established his wife’s purity. Both 
mistress and maid took care to give him time and opportunity to 
get away, and taking advantage of it he made his escape, and at 
once went in quest of Lothario, and it would be impossible to de- 
scribe how he embraced him when he found him, and the things he 
said to him in the joy of his heart, and the praises he bestowed upon 
Camilla; all which Lothario listened to without being able to show 
any pleasure, for he could not forget how deceived his friend was, 


300 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and how dishonorably he had wronged him ; and though Anselmo 
could see that Lothario was not glaj still he imagined it was only 
because he had left Camilla wounded and had been himself the cause 
of it ; and so among other things he told him not to be distressed 
about Camilla’s accident, for, as they had agreed to hide it from him, 
the wound was evidently trifling ; and that bein^ so, he had no cause 
for fear, but should henceforward be of good cheer and rejoice with 
aim, seeing that by his means and adroitness he found himself raised 
to the greatest height of happiness that he could have ventured to 
hope for, and desired no better pastime than making verses in praise 
of Camilla that would preserve her name for all time to come. 
Lothario commended his purpose, and promised on his own part to 
aid him in raising a monument so glorious. 

And so Anselmo was left the most charmingly hoodwinked man 
there could be in the world. He himself, persuaded he was conduct- 
ing the instrument of his glory, led home by the hand him who had 
been the utter destruction of his good name ; whom Camilla received 
with averted countenance, though with smiles in her heart. The de- 
ception was carried on for some time, until at the end of a few 
months Fortune turned her wheel and the guilt which had been until 
then so skilfully concealed was published abroad, and Anselmo paid 
with his life the penalty of his ill-advised curiosity. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON 
QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND 
BRINGS the' novel OF THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY ’’ TO 
A CLOSE. 

There remained, but little more of the novel to be read, 
when Sancho Panza burst forth in wild excitement from 
the garret where Don Quixote was lying, shouting, Run, 
sirs ! quick ; and help my master, who is in the thick of the 
toughest and stiffest battle I ever laid eyes on. By the living 
God he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady the Prin- 
cess Micomicona, such a slash that he has sliced his head clean 
off as if it were a turnip.” 

What are you talking about, brother ? ” said the curate, 
pausing as he was about to read the remainder of the novel. 

Are .you in your senses, Sancho ? How the devil can it be as 
you say, when the giant is two thousand leagues away ? ” 

Here they heard a loud noise in the chamber, and Don 
Quixote shouting out, “ Stand, thief, brigand, villain ; now I 


CHAPTER XXXV, 


801 


have got thee and thy cimeter shall not avail thee ! And 
then it seemed as though he were slashing vigorously at the 
wall. 

Don’t stop to listen,” said Sancho, but go in and part 
them or help my master : though there is no need of that now, 
for no doubt the giant is dead by this time and giving account 
to God of his past wicked life ; for I saw the blood flowing on 
the ground, and the head cut off and fallen on one side, and it 
is as big as a large wine-skin.” 

May I die,” said the landlord at this, if Don Quixote or 
Don Devil has not been slashing some of the skins of red wine 
that stand full at his bed’s head, and the spilt wine must be 
what this good fellow takes for blood ; ” and so saying he went 
into the room and the rest after him, and there they found 
Don Quixote in the strangest costume in the world. He was 
in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his 
thighs completely and was six fingers shorter behind ; his legs 
were very long and lean, covered with hair, and anything but 
clean ; on his head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged 
to the host, round his left arm he had rolled the blanket of 
the bed, to which Sancho, for reasons best known to himself, 
owed a grudge, and in his right hand he held his unsheathed 
sword, with which he was slashing about on all sides, uttering 
exclamations as if he were actually fighting some giant : and 
the best of it was his eyes were not open, for he was fast 
asleep, and dreaming that he was doing battle with the giant. 
For his imagination was so wrought upon by the adventure he 
was going to accomplish, that it made him dream he had al- 
ready reached the kingdom of Micomicon, and was engaged in 
combat with his enemy; and believing he was laying on to 
the giant, he had given so many sword cuts to the skins that 
the whole room was full of wine. On seeing this the landlord 
was so enraged that he fell on Don Quixote, and with his 
clinched fist began to pummel him in such a way, that if Car- 
denio and the curate had not dragged him off, he would have 
brought the war of the giant to an end. But in spite of all 
the poor gentleman never woke until the barber brought a 
great pot of cold water from the well and flung it with one 
dash all over his body, on which Don Quixote woke up, but 
not so completely as to understand what was the matter. 
Dorothea, seeing how short and slight his attire was, would 
not go in to witness the battle between her champion and her 


302 


DON QUIXOTE. 


opponent. As for Sancho, he went searching 'all over the floor 
for the head of the giant, and not finding it he said, I see 
now that it ’s all enchantment in this house ; for the last time, 
on this very spot where I am now^, I got ever so many thumps 
and thwacks without knowing who gave them to me, or being 
able to see anybody ; and now this head is not to be seen any- 
where about, though I saw it cut off with my own eyes and the 
blood running from the body as if from a fountain.’’ 

‘‘ What blood and fountains are you talking about, enemy of 
God and his saints ? ” said the landlord. “ Don’t you see, you 
thief, that the blood and the fountain are only these skins here 
that have been stabbed and the red wine swimming all over the 
room ? — and I wish I saw the soul of him that stabbed them 
swimming in hell.” 

“ I know nothing about that,” said Sancho ; all I know is it 
will be my bad luck that through not finding this head my coun- 
try will melt away like salt in water ; ” — for Sancho awake was 
far worse than his master asleep, so much had his master’s 
promises addled his wits. 

The landlord was beside himself at the coolness of the squire 
and the mischievous doings of the master, and swore it should 
not be like the last time when they went without paying ; and 
that their privileges of chivalry should not hold good this time 
to let one or other of them off without paying, even to the cost 
of the plugs that would have to be put to the damaged wine- 
skins. The curate was holding Don Quixote’s hands, who, 
fancying he had now ended the adventure and was in the pres- 
ence of the Princess Micomicona, knelt before the curate and 
said, Exalted and beauteous lady, your highness may live 
from this day forth fearless of any harm this base being could 
do you ; and I too from this day forth am released from the 
promise I gave you, since by the help of God on high and by 
the favor of her by whom I live and breathe, I have fulfilled it 
so successfully.” 

“ Did not I say so ? ” said Sancho on hearing this. You 
see I was n’t drunk ; there you see my master has already 
salted the giant ; there ’s no doubt about the bulls : ^ my coun- 
try is all right ! ” 

Who could have helped laughing at the absurdities of the 
pair, master and man ? And laugh they did, all except the land- 

1 Prov. 228 — expressive probably of popular anxiety on the eve of a 
bull-fight. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


303 


lord, who cursed himself ; but at length the barber, Cardenio, 
and the curate contrived with no small trouble to get Don 
Quixote on the bed, and he fell asleep with every appearance 
of excessive weariness. They left him to sleep, and came out 
to the gate of the inn to console Sancho Panza on not having 
found the head of the giant ; but much more work had they to 
appease the landlord, who was furious at the sudden death of 
his wine-skins ; and said the landlady, half scolding, half cry- 
ing, “ At an evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came into 
my house, this knight-errant — would that I had never set 
eyes on him, for dear he has cost me ; the last time he went off 
with the overnight score against him for supper, bed, straw, and 
barley, for himself and his squire and a hack and an ass, 
saying he was a knight adventurer — God send unlucky ad- 
ventures to him and all the adventurers in the world — and 
therefore not bound to pay anything, for it was so settled by 
the knight-errantry tariff : and then, all because of him, came 
the other gentleman and carried off my tail, and gives it back 
more than two quartillos ^ the worse, all stripped of its hair, so 
that it is no use for my husband’s purpose ; and then, for a 
finishing touch to all, to burst my wine-skins and spill my 
wine ! I wish I saw his own blood spilt ! But let him not de- 
ceive himself, for, by the bones of my father and the shade of 
my mother, they shall pay me down every quarto ; or my name 
is not what it is, and I am not my father’s daughter.” All 
this and more to the same effect the landlady delivered with 
great irritation, and her good maid Maritornes backed her up, 
while the daughter held her peace and smiled from time to 
time. The curate smoothed matters by promising to make 
good all losses to the best of his power, not only as regarded 
the wine-skins but also the wine, and above all the depreciation 
of the tail which they set such store by. Dorothea comforted 
Sancho, telling him that she pledged herself, as soon as it 
should appear certain that his master had decapitated the giant, 
and she found herself peacefully established in her kingdom, 
to bestow upon him the best county there was in it. With 
this Sancho consoled himself, and assured the princess she 
might rely upon it that he had seen the head of the giant, and 
more by token it had a beard that reached to the girdle, and 
that if it was not to be seen now it was because everything that 
happened in that house went by enchantment, as he himself 
1 Quartillo — the fourth of a real. 


304 


DON QUIXOTE. 


had proved the last time he had lodged there. Dorothea said 
she fully believed it, and that he need not be uneasy, for all 
v ould go well and turn out as he wished. All therefore being 
appeased, the curate was anxious to get on with the novel, as 
he saw there was but little more left to read. Dorothea and 
the others begged him to finish it, and he, as he was willing to 
please them, and enjoyed reading it himself, continued the 
tale in these words : 

The result was, that from the confidence Anselmo felt in the virtue 
of Camilla, he lived happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla pur- 
posely looked coldly on Lothario, that Anselmo might suppose her 
feelings towards him to be the opposite of what they were ; and the 
better to support the position, Lothario begged to be excused from 
coming to the house, as the displeasure with which Camilla regarded 
his presence was plain to be seen. But the befooled Anselmo said 
he would on no account allow such a thing, and so in a thousand 
ways he became the author of his own dishonor, while he believed 
he was insuring his happiness. Meanwhile the satisfaction with 
which Leonela saw herself empowered to carry on her amour reached 
such a height that, regardless of everything else, she followed her 
inclinations unrestrainedly, feeling confident that her mistress would 
screen her, and even show her how to manage it safely. At last one 
night Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela’s room, and on trying to 
' nter to see who it was, he found that the door was held against him, 
which made him all the more determined to open it ; and exerting 
his strength he forced it open, and entered the room in time to see a 
man leaping through the window into the street. He ran quickly to 
seize him or discover who he was, but he was unable to effect either 
purpose, for Leonela flung her arms around him crying, “ Be calm, 
senor ; do not give way to passion or follow him who has escaped 
from this ; he belongs to me, and in fact he is my husband.” 

Anselmo would not believe it, but blind with rage drew a dagger 
and threatened to stab Leonela, bidding her tell the truth or he 
would kill her. She, in her fear, not knowing what she was saying, 
exclaimed, “ Do not kill me, senor, for I can tell you things more 
important than any you can imagine.” 

“ Tell me then at once or thou diest,” said Anselmo. 

“ It would be impossible forme now,” said Leonela, “I am so 
agitated : leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me 
what will fill you with astonishment ; but rest assured that he who 
leaped through the window is a young man of this city, who has 
given me his promise to become my husband.” 

Anselmo was appeased with this, and was content to wait the time 
she asked of him, for he never expected to hear anything against 
Camilla, so satisfied and sure of her virtue was he ; and so he quitted 
the room, and left Leonela locked in, telling her she should not 
come out until she had told him all she had to make known to him. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


He went at once to see Camilla, and tell her, as he did, all that had 
passed between him and her handmaid, and the promise she had 
given him to inform him of matters of serious importance. 

There is no need of saying whether Camilla was agitated or not, 
for so great was her fear and dismay, that, making sure, as she had 
good reason to do, that Leonela would tell Anselmo all she knew of 
her faithlessness, she had not the courage to wait and see if her 
suspicions were confirmed; and that same night, as soon as she 
thought that Anselmo was asleep, she packed up the most valuable 
jewels she had and some money, and without being observed by any- 
body escaped from the house and betook herself to Lothario’s to 
whom she related what had occurred, imploring him to convey her 
to some place of safety or fly with her where they might be safe 
from Anselmo. The state of perplexity to which Camilla reduced 
Lothario was such that he was unable to utter a word in reply, still 
less to decide upon what he should do. At length he resolved to 
conduct her to a convent of which a sister of his was prioress; 
Camilla agreed to this, and with the speed which the circumstances 
demanded, Lothario took her to the convent and left her there, 
and then himself quitted the city without letting any one know of 
his departure. 

As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from 
his side, rose eager to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hast- 
ened to the room where he had locked her in. He opened the door, 
entered, but found no Leonela ; all he found was some sheets knotted 
to the window, a plain proof that she had let herself down from it 
and escaped. He returned, uneasy, to tell Camilla, but not finding 
her in bed or anywhere in the house he was lost in amazement. He 
asked the servants of the house about her, but none of them could 
give him any explanation. As he was going in search of Camilla it 
happened by chance that he observed her boxes were lying open, and 
that the greater part of her jewels were gone ; and now he became 
fully aware of his disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of 
his misfortune; and, just as he was, without delaying to dress him- 
self completely, he repaired, sad at heart and dejected, to his friend 
Lothario to make known his sorrow to him ; but when he failed to 
find him and the servants reported that he had been absent from his 
house all night and had taken with him all the money he had, he felt 
as though he were losing his senses ; and to make all complete on 
returning to his own house he found it deserted and empty, not one 
of all his servants, male or female, remaining in it. He knew not 
what to think, or say, or do, and his reason seemed to be deserting 
him little by little. He reviewed his position, and saw himself in a 
moment left without wife, friend, or servants, abandoned, he felt, by 
the heaven above him, and more than all robbed of his honor, for in 
Camilla's disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long reflection 
he resolved at last to go to his friend’s country house where he had 
been staying when he afforded opportunities for the contrivance of 
this complication of misfortune. He locked the doors of his house, 
mounted his horse, and with a broken spirit set out on his journey ; 

VoL. I. - 20 


306 


DON QUIXOTE, 


but he had hardly gone half-way when, harassed by his reflections, 
he had to dismount and tie his horse to a tree, at the foot of which 
he threw himself, giving vent to piteous heart-rending sighs ; and 
there he remained till nearly nightfall, when he observed a man ap- 
proaching on horseback from the city, of whom, after saluting him, 
he asked what was the news in Florence. 

The citizen replied, “ The strangest that have been heard for "many 
a day ; for it is reported abroad that Lothario, the great friend of the 
wealthy Anselmo, who lived at San Giovanni, carried off last night 
Camilla, the wife of Anselmo, who also has disappeared. All this 
has been told by a maid-servant of Camilla’s, whom the governor 
found last night lowering himself by a sheet from the windows of 
Anselmo’s house. I know not indeed, precisely, how the aftair came 
to pass ; all I know is that the whole city is wondering at the occur- 
rence, for no one could have expected a thing of the kind, seeing 
the great and intimate friendship that existed between them, so great, 
they say, that they were called ‘ The two Friends.’” 

“Is it known at all,” said Anselmo, “what road Lothario and 
Camilla took ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” said the citizen, “ though the governor has been 
very active in searching for them.” 

“ God speed you, senor,” said Anselmo. 

“ God be with you,” said the citizen, and went his way. 

This disastrous intelligence almost robbed Anselmo not only of his 
senses, but of his life. He got up as well as he was able, and 
reached the house of his friend, who as yet knew nothing of his mis- 
fortune, but seeing him come pale, worn, and haggard, perceived 
that he was suflfering some heavy affliction. Anselmo at once begged 
to be allowed to retire to rest, and to be given writing materials. 
His wish was complied with, and he was left lying down and alone, 
for he desired this, and even that the door should be locked. Finding 
himself alone, he so took to heart the thought of his misfortune that 
by the signs of death he felt within him, he knew well his life was 
drawing to a close, and therefore he resolved to leave behind him a 
declaration of the cause of his strange end. He began to write, but 
before he had put down all he meant to say, his breath failed him, 
and he yielded up his life, a victim to the suttering which his ill-ad- 
vised curiosity had entailed upon him. The master of the house ob- 
serving that it was now late and that Anselmo did not call, determined 
to go in and ascertain if his indisposition was increasing, and found 
him lying on his face, his body partly in the bed, partly on the 
writing-table, on which he lay with the written paper open" and the 
pen still in his hand. Having first called to him without receiving 
any answer, his host approached him, and taking him by the hand, 
found that it was cold, and saw that he was dead. Greatly surprised 
and distressed he summoned the household to witness the sad fate 
which had befallen Anselmo ; and then he read the paper, the hand- 
writing of which he recognized as his, and which contained these 
words : 

“ A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the 


CHAPTER XXXV I . 


307 


news of my death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know 
that I forgive her, for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor 
ought I to have required her to perform them ; and since I have been 
the author of my own dishonor, there is no reason why ” — 

So far Anselmo had written, and thus it was plain that at this 
point, before he could finish what he had to say, his life came to an 
end. The next day his friend sent intelligence of his death to his 
relatives, who had already ascertained his misfortime, as well as the 
convent where Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying her 
husband on that inevitable journey, not on account of the tidings of 
his death, but because of those she received of her lover’s departure. 
Although siie saw herself a widow, it is said she refused either to 
quit the convent or take the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelli- 
gence reached her that Lothario had been killed in a battle in which 
M. de Lautrec had been recently engaged with the Great Captain 
Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova ' in the kingdom of Naples, whither 
her too late repentant lover had repaired. On learning this Camilla 
took the veil, and shortly afterwards died, worn out by grief and 
melancholy. This was the end of all three, an end that came of a 
thoughtless beginning. 

“ I like this novel/’ said the curate ; but I can not persuade 
myself of its truth ; and if it has been invented, the author’s 
invention is faulty, for it is impossible to imagine any husband 
so foolish as to try such a costly experiment as Anselmo’s. If 
it had been represented as occurring between a gallant and his 
mistress it might pass ; but between husband and wife there is 
something of an impossibility about it. As to the way in which 
the story is told, however, I have no fault to find.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT 
OCCURRED AT THE INN. 

Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the 
gate of the inn, exclaimed, Here comes a fine troop of guests ; 
if they stop here we may say gaudeamusP 

“ What are they ? ” said Cardenio. 

Four men,” said the landlord, riding a lajineta^^ with 

* Lautrec and the Great Captain were not engaged in the same cam- 
paigns.' The former commanded in Italy in the time of Francis I and 
Charles V., several years after the death of the Great Captain. 

2 i.e. on high saddles with short stirrups. 


308 


DON QUIXOTE, 


lances and bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them 
there is a woman in white on a side-saddle, whose face is also 
veiled, and two attendants on foot.^^ 

Are they very near ? ’’ said the curate. 

So near,” answered the landlord, that here they come.” 

Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio re- 
treated into Don Quixote’s room, and they hardly had time to 
do so before the whole party the host had described entered 
the inn, and the four that were on horseback, who were of high- 
bred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and came forward to 
take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and one of 
them taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at 
the entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden himself. 
All this time neither she nor they had removed their veils or 
spoken a word, only on sitting down on the chair the woman 
gave a deep sigh and let her arms fall like one that was ill and 
weak. The attendants on foot then led the horses away to the 
stable. Observing this the curate, curious to know who these 
people in such a dress and preserving such silence were, went 
to where the servants were standing and put the question to 
one of them, who answered him, Faith, sir, I can not tell you 
who they are, I only know they seem to be people of distinction, 
particularly he who advanced to take the lady you saw in his 
arms ; and I say so because all the rest show him respect, and 
nothing is done except what he directs and orders.” 

And the lady, who is she ? ” asked the curate. 

That I can not tell you either,” said the servant, for I 
have not seen her face all the way : I have indeed heard her 
sigh many times and utter such groans that she seems to be 
giving up the ghost every time : but it is no wonder if we do 
know more than we- have told you, as my comrade and I have 
only been in their company two days, for having met us on the 
road they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to 
Andalusia, promising to pay us well.” 

And have you heard any of them called by his name ? ” 
asked the curate. 

No, indeed,” replied the servant ; they all preserve a mar- 
vellous silence on the road, for not a sound is to be heard 
among them except the poor lady’s sighs and sobs, which make 
us pity her ; and we feel sure that wherever it is she is going, 
it is against her will, and as far as one can judge from her 
dress she is a nun or, what is more likely, about to become one j 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


309 


and perhaps it is because taking the vows is not of her own 
free will, that she is so unhappy as she seems to be.’’ 

That may well be,” said the curate, and leaving them he 
returned to where Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady 
sigh, moved by natural compassion drew near to her and said. 

What are you suffering from, senora ? If it be anything that 
women are accustomed, and know how to relieve, I for my part 
offer you my services with all my heart.” 

To this the unhappy lady made no reply ; and though Doro- 
thea repeated her ofers more earnestly she still kept silence, 
until the gentleman with the veil, who, the servant said, was 
obeyed by the rest, approached and said to Dorothea, “ Do not 
give yourself the trouble, senora, of making any offers to that 
woman, for it is her way to give no thanks for anything that is 
done for her ; and do not try to make her answer unless you 
want to hear some lie from her lips.” 

I have never told a lie,” was the immediate reply of her 
who had been silent until now ; “ on the contrary, it is because 
I am so truthful and so ignorant of lying devices that I am 
now in this miserable condition ; and this I call you yourself to 
witness, for it is my unstained truth that has made you false 
and a liar.” 

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being 
quite close to the speaker, for there was only the door of Don 
Quixote’s room between them, and the instant he did so, utter- 
ing a loud exclamation he cried, “ Good God ! what is this I 
hear ? What voice is this that has reached my ears ? ” Star- 
tled at the voice the lady turned her head ; and not seeing the 
speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room ; observ- 
ing which the gentleman held her back, preventing her from 
moving a step. In her agitation and sudden movement the 
silk with which she had covered her face fell off and disclosed 
a countenance of incomparable and marvellous beauty, but 
pale and terrified ; for she kept turning her eyes, everywhere 
she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made her 
look as if she had lost her senses, and so marked that it ex- 
cited the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though 
they knew not what caused it. The gentleman grasped her 
firmly by the shoulders, and being so fully occupied with 
holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to his veil 
which was falling off, as it did at length entirely, and Doro- 
thea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes 


310 


DON QUIXOTE. 


saw that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don 
Fernando. The instant she recognized him, with a prolonged 
plaintive cry drawn from the depths of her heart, she fell 
backwards fainting, and but for the barber being close by to 
catch her in his arms, she would have fallen completely to 
the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her 
face and throw water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, 
for he it was who held the other in his arms, recognized her 
and stood as if death- stricken by the sight; not, however, 
relaxing his grasp of Luscinda, for it was she that was 
struggling to release herself from his hold, having recog- 
nized Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognized her. Car- 
denio also heard Dorothea’s cry as she fell fainting, and 
imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror 
from the room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando 
with Luscinda in his arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Car- 
denio at once; and all three, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Doro- 
thea,^ stood in silent amazement scarcely knowing what had 
happened to them. 

They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at 
Don Fernando, Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Lu- 
scinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The first to break silence 
was Luscinda, who thus addressed Don Fernando : Leave 
me, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to 
yourself ; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling 
to the wall of which I am the ivy, to the support from which 
neither your importunities, nor your threats, nor your prom- 
ises, nor your gifts have been able to detach me. See how 
Heaven, by ways strange and hidden from our sight, has 
brought me face to face with my true husband; and well 
you know by dear-bought experience that death alone will 
be able to efface him from my memory. May this plain 
declaration, then, lead you, as you can do nothing else, to 
turn your love into rage, your affection into resentment, and 
so to take my life ; for if I yield it up in the presence of my 
beloved husband I count it well bestowed; it may be by my 
death he will be convinced that I kept my faith to him to the 
last moment of life.” ' 

Meanwhile . Dorothea hM- come to herself, and had heard 
Luscinda’s words, by means hf which?she divined who she was ; 

* Only a few lines back "we are^ t6ld Dorothea had fainted, and a little 
farther on how she came to herself. ^ ' 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


311 


but seeing that Don Fernando did not yet release her or reply 
to her, summoning up her resolution as well as she could she 
rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of bright and touch- 
ing tears addressed him thus : 

^^If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou boldest 
eclipsed in thine arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of 
sight thou wouldst have seen by this time that she who kneels 
at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt have it so, the unhappy and 
unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly peasant girl whom 
thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst raise high 
enough to call herself thine ; I am she who in the seclusion of 
innocence led a contented life until at the voice of thy importu- 
nity, and thy true and tender passion, as it seemed, she opened 
the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee the keys of 
her liberty ; a gift received by thee but thanklessly as is clearly 
shown by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost find 
me, and by thy appearance under the circumstances in which I 
see thee. Nevertheless, I would not have thee suppose that 
I have come here driven by my shame ; it is only grief and 
sorrow at seeing myself forgotten by thee that have led me. 
It was thy will to make me thine, and thou didst so follow thy 
will, that now, even though thou repentest, thou canst not help 
being mine. Bethink thee, my lord, the unsurpassable affection 
I bear thee may compensate for the beauty and noble birth for 
which thou wouldst desert me. Thou canst not be the fair 
Luscinda’s because thou art mine, nor can she be thine because 
she is Cardenio’s ; and it will be easier, remember, to bend thy 
will to love one who adores thee, than to lead one to love thee 
who abhors thee now. Thou didst address thyself to my sim- 
plicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert not igno- 
rant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly 
to thy will ; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead de- 
ception, and if it be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as 
thou art a gentleman, why dost thou by such subterfuges put off 
making me as happy at last as thou didst at fii’st ? And if thou 
wilt not have me for what I am, thy true and lawful wife, at 
least take and accept me as thy slave, for so long as I am thine 
I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do not by deserting 
me let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the streets ; 
make not the old age of my parents miserable ; for the loyal ser- 
vices they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not 
deserving of such a return ; and if thou thinkest it will debase 


312 


DON QUIXOTE. 


thy blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is little or no 
nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and 
that in illustrious lineages it is not the woman’s blood that is of 
account ; and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and 
if thou art wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou 
owest me, then even I have higher claims to nobility than 
thine. To make an end, senor, these are my last words to thee : 
whether thou wilt, or wilt not, I am thy wife ; witness thy 
words, which must not and ought not to be false, if thou dost 
pride thyself on that for want of which thou scornest me ; 
witness the pledge which thou didst give me,^ and witness 
Heaven, which thou thyself didst call to witness the promise 
thou hadst made me ; and if all this fail, thy own conscience 
will not fail to lift up its silent voice in the midst of all thy 
gayety, and vindicate the truth of what I say and mar thy 
highest pleasure and enjoyment.” 

All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such 
earnest feeling and such tears that all present, even those who 
came with Don Fernando, were constrained to join her in them. 
Don Fernando listened to her without replying, until, ceasing 
to speak, she gave way to such sobs and sighs that it must 
have been a heart of brass that was not softened by the sight 
of so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her with no less 
compassion for her sufferings than admiration for her intelli- 
gence and beauty, and would have gone to her to say some 
words of comfort to her, but was prevented by Don Fernando’s 
grasp which held her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion 
and astonishment, after regarding Dorothea for some moments 
with a fixed gaze, opened his arms, and, releasing Luscinda, 
exclaimed, Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast 
conquered, for it is impossible to have the heart to deny the 
united force of so many truths.” 

Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the 
ground when Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who 
stood near, having retreated behind Don Fernando to escape 
recognition, casting fear aside and regardless of what might 
happen, ran forward to support her, and said as he clasped her 
in his arms, “ If Heaven in its compassion is willing to let thee 
rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant, and fair, 
nowhere canst thou rest more safely than in these arms that 

^ The first edition has^rwa que hicisie ; but Don Fernando did not sign 
any paper, but gave Dorothea a ring, 


CHAPTER XXXV I . 


313 


now receive thee, and received thee before when fortune per- 
mitted me to call thee mine.’’ 

At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first 
beginning to recognize him by his voice and then satisfying 
herself by her eyes that it was he, and hardly knowing what 
she did, and heedless of all considerations of decorum, she 
flung her arms around his neck and pressing her face close to 
his, said, Yes, my dear lord, you are the true master of this 
your slave, even though adverse fate interpose again, and fresh 
dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours.” 

A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that 
stood around, filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked 
for. Dorothea fancied that Don Fernando changed color and 
looked as though he meant to take vengeance on Cardenio, for 
she observed him put his hand to his sword ; and the instant 
the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she clasped him 
round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to 
prevent his moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow. 

What is it thou wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen 
event ? Thou hast thy wife at thy feet, and she whom thou 
wouldst have for thy wife is in the arms of her husband: 
reflect whether it will be right for thee, whether it will be pos- 
sible for thee to undo what Heaven has done, or whether it will 
be becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be thy mate who in 
spite of every obstacle, and strong in her truth and constancy, 
is before thine eyes, bathing with the tears of love the face and 
bosom of her lawful husband. For God’s sake I entreat of thee, 
for thine own I implore thee, let not this open manifestation 
rouse thy anger ; but rather so calm it as to allow these two 
lovers to live in peace and quiet without any interference from 
thee so long as Heaven permits them ; and in so doing thou wilt 
prove the generosity of thy lofty noble spirit, and the world 
shall see that with thee reason has more influence than passion.” 

All the while Dorothea was speaking Cardenio, though he 
held Luscinda in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fer- 
nando, determined, if he saw him make any hostile movement, 
to try and defend himself and resist as best he could all who 
might assail him, though it should cost him his life. But now 
Don Fernando’s friends, as well as the curate and the barber, 
who had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy 
Sancho Panza, ran forward and gathered round Don Fernando, 
entreating him to have regard for the tears of Dorothea, and 


314 


DON QUIXOTE. 


not suffer her reasonable hopes to be disappointed, since, as 
they firmly believed, what she said was but the truth ; and 
bidding him observe that it was not, as it might seem, 
by accident, but by a special disposition of Providence that 
they had all met in a place where no one could have expected 
a meeting. And the curate bade him remember that only 
death could part Luscinda from Cardenio ; that even if some 
sword were to separate them they would think their death 
most happy ; and that in a case that admitted of no remedy his 
wisest course was, by conquering and putting a constraint upon 
himself, to show a generous mind, and of his own accord suffer 
these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had granted them. 
He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon the beauty of Dorothea 
and he would see that few if any could equal much less excel 
her ; while to that beauty should be added her modesty and the 
surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded 
him that if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a 
Christian, he could not do otherwise than keep his plighted 
word ; and that in doing so he would obey God and meet 
the approval of all sensible people, who know and recognize 
it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of humble 
birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself 
to the level of any rank, without any slur upon him who places 
it upon an equality with himself and furthermore that when 
the potent sway of passion asserts itself, so long as there be 
no mixture of sin in it, he is not to be blamed who gives way 
to it. 

To be brief, they added to these such other forcible argu- 
ments that Don Fernando^s manly heart, being after all 
nourished by noble blood, was touched, and yielded to the 
truth which, even had he wished it, he could not gainsay ; and 
he showed his submission, and acceptance of the good advice 
that had been offered to him, by stooping down and embracing 
Dorothea, saying to her, Eise, dear lady, it is not right that 
what I hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet ; and if 
until now I have shoivn no sign of what I own, it may have 
been by Heaven’s dedi’be iii order that, seeing the constancy 
with which you love nie, I may learn to value you as you 
deserve. What I entreat of you is that you reproach me not 
with my transgression and grievous wrOng-doing ; for the same 
cause and force that drove me to make you mine impelled me 
to struggle against being ydiirs ; and to prove this, turn and 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


315 


look at the eyes of the now happy Luseinda, and yon will see 
in them an excuse for all my errors : and as she, has found and 
gained the object of her desires, and I have found in you 
what, satisfies all my wishes, may she live in peace and con- 
tentment as many happy years with her Cardenio, as on my 
knees I pray Heaven. to allow me to live with my Dorothea; ’’ 
and with these wmrds he once more embraced her and pressed 
his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to take 
great heed to keep his tears from completing the proof of his 
love and repentance in the sight of all. Hot so Luseinda, and 
Cardenio, and almost all the others, for they shed so many 
tears, some in their own happiness, some at that of the others, 
that one would have supposed a heavy calamity had fallen 
upon them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping ; though 
afterwards he said he only wept because he saw that Dorothea 
was not as he fancied the queen Micomicona, of wLorn he 
expected such great favors. Their wonder as well as their 
weeping lasted some time, and then Cardenio and Luseinda 
went and fell on their knees before Don Eernando, returning 
him thanks for the favor he had rendered them in language so 
grateful that he knew not how to answer them, and raising 
them up embraced them with every mark of affection and 
courtesy. 

He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a 
place so far removed from her own home, and she in a few 
fitting words told all that she had previously related to Car- 
denio, with which Don Eernando and his companions were so 
delighted that they wished the story had been longer ; so 
charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When 
she had finished Don Eernando recounted what had befallen 
him in the city after he had found in Luscinda’s bosom the 
paper in which she declared that she was Cardenio’s wife, and 
never could be his. He said he meant to kill her, and would 
have done so had he not been prevented by her parents, and 
that he quitted the house full of rage and shame, and resolved 
to avenge himself when a more convenient opportunity should 
offer. The next day he learned that Luseinda had disappeared 
from her father’s house, and that no one could tell whither 
she had gone. Einally, at the end of some months he ascer- 
tained that she was in a convent and meant to remain there 
all the rest of her life, if she were not to share it with Car- 
denio ; and as soon as he had learned this, taking these three 


316 


DON QUIXOTE, 


gentlemen as his companions, he arrived at the place where 
she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing that if it were 
known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in the 
convent; and watching a time when the porter’s lodge was 
open he left two to guard the gate, and he and the other 
entered the convent in quest of Luscinda, whom they found in 
the cloisters in conversation with one of the nuns, and carry- 
ing her off without giving her time to resist, they reached a 
place with her where they provided themselves with what they 
required for taking her away ; all which they were able to 
do in complete safety, as the convent was in the country at a 
considerable distance from the city. He added that when 
Luscinda found herself in his power she lost all consciousness, 
and after returning to herself did nothing but weep and sigh 
without speaking a word ; and thus in silence and tears they 
reached that inn, which for him was reaching heaven where 
all the mischances of earth are over and at an end. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRIN- 
CESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES. 

To all this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to 
see how his hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing 
in smoke, and how the fair princess Micomicona had turned 
into Dorothea, and the giant into Don Fernando, while his 
master was sleeping tranquilly, totally unconscious of all that 
had come to pass. Dorothea was unable to persuade herself 
that her present happiness was not all a dream ; Cardenio was 
in a similar state of mind, and Luscinda’s thoughts ran in the 
same direction. Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for the 
favor shown to him and for having been rescued from the intri- 
cate labyrinth in which he had been brought so near the 
destruction of his good name and of his soul ; and in short 
everybody in the inn was full of contentment and satisfaction 
at the happy issue of such a complicated and hopeless business. 
The curate as a sensible man made sound reflections upon the 
whole affair, and congratulated each upon his good fortune ; but 
the one that was in the highest spirits and good humor was the 


CHAPTER XXXVI 1. 


317 


landlady, because of the promise Cardenio and the curate had 
given her to pay for all the losses and damage she had sus- 
tained through Don Quixote’s means. Sancho, as has been 
already said, was the only one who was distressed, unhappy, 
and dejected ; and so with a long face he went in to his mas- 
ter, who had just awoke, and said to him, Sir Eueful Counte- 
nance, your worship may as well sleep on as much as you like, 
without troubling yourself about killing any giant or restoring 
her kingdom to the princess ; for that is all over and settled 
now.” 

I should think it was,” replied Don Quixote, for I have 
had the most prodigious and stupendous battle with the gaint 
that I ever remember having had all the days of my life ; and 
with one back stroke — swish ! — I brought his head tumbling 
to the ground, and so much blood gushed forth from him that 
it ran in rivulets over the earth like water.” 

“ Like red wine, your worship had better say,” replied 
Sancho ; for I would have you know, if you don’t know it, 
that the dead giant is a hacked wine-skin, and the blood four- 
and-twenty gallons of red wine that it had in its belly, and the 
cut-off head is the bitch that bore me ; and the devil take it all.” 

What art thou talking about, fool ? ” said Don Quixote ; 
art thou in thy senses ? ” 

Let your worship get up,” said Sancho, and you will see 
the nice business you have made of it, and what we have to 
pay ; and you will see the queen turned into a private lady 
called Dorothea, and other things that will astonish you, if 
you understand them.” 

I shall not be surprised at anything of the kind,” returned 
Don Quixote ; for if thou dost remember the last time we 
were here I told thee that everything that happened here was 
a matter of enchantment, and it would be no wonder if it 
were the same now.” 

I could believe all that,” replied Sancho, if my blanket- 
ing was the same sort of thing also ; only it was n’t, but real 
and genuine ; for I saw the landlord, who is here to-day, hold- 
ing one end of the blanket and jerking me up to the skies very 
neatly and smartly, and with as much laughter as strength ; 
and when it comes to be a case of knowing people, I hold for 
my part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is no enchant- 
ment about it at all, but a great deal of bruising and plenty of 
bad luck.” 


318 


BON QUIXOTE. 


^‘Well, well, God will give a remedy/’ said Don Qui- 
xote ; “ hand me my clothes and let me go out, for I want to 
see these transformations and things thou speakest of.” 

Sancho fetched him his clothes ; and while he was dressing, 
the curate gave Don Fernando and the others present an 
account of Don Quixote’s madness and of the stratagem they 
had made use of to withdraw him from that Pena Pobre where 
he fancied himself stationed because of his lady’s scorn. He 
described to them also nearly all the adventures that Sancho 
had mentioned, at which they marvelled and laughed not a 
little, thinking it, as all did, the strangest form of madness a 
crazy intellect could be capable of. But now, the curate said, 
that the lady Dorothea’s good fortune prevented her from pro- 
ceeding with their purpose, it would be necessary to devise or 
discover some other way of getting him home. 

Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begun, 
and suggested that Luscinda would act and support Dorothea’s 
part sufficiently well. 

No,” said Don Fernando, that must not be, for I want 
Dorothea to follow out this idea of hers ; and if the worthy 
gentleman’s village is not very far off, I shall be happy if I 
can do anything for his relief.” 

It is not more than two days’ journey from this,” said the 
curate. 

Even if it were more,” said Don Fernando, I would 
gladly travel so far for the sake of doing so good a work.” 

At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with 
Mambrino’s helmet, all dinted as it was, on his head, his 
buckler on his arm, and leaning on his staff or pike. The 
strange figure he presented filled Don Fernando and the rest 
with amazement as they contemplated his lean yellow face 
half a league long, his armor of all sorts, and the solemnity of 
his deportment. They stood silent waiting to see what he 
would say, and he, fixing his eyes on the fair Dorothea, 
addressed her with great gravity and composure : 

“ I am informed, fair lady, by my squire here that your 
greatness has been annihilated and your being abolished, since, 
from a queen and lady of high degree as you used to be, you 
have been turned into a private maiden. If this has been 
done by the command of the magician king your father, 
through fear that I should not afford you the aid you need and 
are entitled to, I may tell you he did not know and does not 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


319 


know half the Mass,^ and was little versed in the annals of 
chivalry ; for, if he had read and gone through them as atten- 
tively and deliberately as I have, he would have found at 
every turn that knights of less renown than mine, have accom- 
plished things more difficult : it is no great matter to kill a 
whelp of a giant, however arrogant he may he ; for it is not 
many hours since I myself was engaged with one, and — I 
will not speak of it, that they may not say I am lying ; time, 
however, that reveals all, will tell the tale when we least 
expect it.’’ 

“ You were engaged with a couple of wine-skins, and not a 
giant said the landlord at this ; but Don Fernando told him 
to hold his tongue and on no account interrupt Don Quixote, 
who continued, “ I say in conclusion, high and disinherited 
lady, that if your father has brought about this metamorphosis 
in your person for the reason I have mentioned, you ought not 
to attach any importance to it ; for there is no peril on earth 
through which my sword will not force a way, and with it, be- 
fore many days are over, I will bring your enemy’s head to the 
ground and place on yours the crown of your kingdom.” 

Don Quixote said no more, and waited for the reply of the 
princess, who, aware of Don Fernando’s determination to carry 
on the deception until Don Quixote had been conveyed to his 
home, with great ease of manner and gravity made answer, 
Whoever told you, valiant Knight of the Rueful Counte- 
nance,. that I had undergone any change or transformation did 
not tell you the truth, for I am the same as I was yesterday. 
It is true that certain strokes of good fortune, that have given 
me more than I could have hoped for, have made some altera- 
tion in me ; but I have not therefore ceased to be what I was 
before, or to entertain the same desire I have had all through 
of availing myself of the might of your valiant and invincible 
arm, And so, sehor, let your goodness reinstate the father that 
begot me in your good opinion, and be assured that he was a 
wise and prudent man, since by his craft he found out such a 
sure and easy way of remedying my misfortune ; for I believe, 
senor, that had it not been for you I should never have lit upon 
Ifhe good fortune I now possess ; and in this I am saying what 
is perfectly true ; as most of these gentlemen who are present 
can fully testify. All that remains is to set out on our 
journey- to-morrow, for to-day we could not make much way ; 

- Xo saber de la misa la media., a familiar mode of describing ignorance. 


320 


DON QUIXOTE, 


and for the rest of the happy result I am looking forward to, 
I trust to God and the valor of your heart.’^ 

So said the sprightly Dorothea, and on hearing her Don 
Quixote turned to Sancho, and said to him, with an angry air, 
I declare now, little Sancho, thou art the greatest little vil- 
lain in Spain. Say, thief and vagabond, hast thou not just 
now told me that this princess had been turned into a maiden 
called Dorothea, and that the head which I am persuaded I 
cut olf from a giant was the bitch that bore thee, and other 
nonsense that put me in the greatest perplexity I have ever 
been in all my life ? I vow (and here he looked to heaven 
and ground his teeth) I have a mind to play the mischief with 
thee, in a way that will teach sense for the future to all lying 
squires of knights-errant in the world.” 

“ Let your worship be calm, sehor,” returned Sancho, for 
it may well be that I have been mistaken as to the change of 
the lady princess Micomicona ; but as to the giant’s head, or 
at least as to the piercing of the wine-skins, and the blood be- 
ing red wine, I make no mistake, as sure as there is a God ; 
because the wounded skins are there at the head of your wor- 
ship’s bed, and the red wine has made a lake of the room ; if 
not you will see when the eggs come to be fried ; ^ I mean 
when his worship the landlord here calls for all the damages : 
for the rest, I am heartily glad that her ladyship the queen is 
as she was, for it concerns me as much as any one.” 

I tell thee again, Sancho, thou art a fool,” said Don 
Quixote ; forgive me, and that will do.” 

That will do,” said Don Fernando ; let us say no more 
about it ; and as her ladyship the princess proposes to set out 
to-morrow because it is too late to-day, so be it, and we will pass 
the night in pleasant conversation, and to-morrow we will 
all accompany Senor Don Quixote ; for we wish to witness the 
valiant and unparalleled achievements he is about to perform 
in the course of this mighty enterprise which he has under- 
taken.” 

It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you,” said Don 
Quixote ; and I am much gratified by the favor that is be- 
stowed upon me, and the good opinion entertained of me, which 
I shall strive to justify or it shall cost me my life, or even 
more, if it can possibly cost me more.” 

* Prov. 120. The time at which the truth of any statement m ill be 
seen. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


321 


Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness 
that passed between Don Quixote and Don Fernando ; but they 
were brought to an end by a traveller who at this moment en- 
tered the inn, and who seemed from his attire to be a Christian 
lately come from the country of the Moors, for he was dressed 
in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth with half -sleeves and with- 
out a collar ; his breeches were also of blue cloth, and his cap 
of the same color, and he wore yellow buskins and had a Moor- 
ish cutlass slung from a baldric across his breast. Behind 
him, mounted upon an ass, there came a woman dressed in 
Moorish fashion, with her face veiled and a scarf on her head, 
and wearing a little brocaded cap, and a mantle that covered 
her from her shoulders to her feet. The man was of a robust 
and well-proportioned frame, in age a little over forty, rather 
swarthy in complexion, with long mustaches and a full beard, 
and, in short, his appearance was such that if he had been well 
dressed he would have been taken for a person of quality and 
good birth. On entering he asked for a room, and when they 
told him there was none in the inn he seemed distressed, and 
approaching her who by her dress seemed to be a Moor he took 
her down from the saddle in his arms. Luscinda, Dorothea, 
the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, attracted by the 
strange, and to them entirely new costume, gathered round 
her ; and Dorothea, who was always kindly, courteous, and 
quick-witted, perceiving that both she and the man who had 
brought her were annoyed at not finding a room, said to her. 
Do not be put out, senora, by the discomfort and want of 
luxuries here, for it is the way of road-side inns to be without 
them ; still, if you will be pleased to share our lodging with us 
(pointing to Luscinda) perhaps you will have found worse ac- 
commodations in the course of your journey.’^ 

To this the veiled lady made no reply ; all she did was to 
rise from her seat, crossing her hands upon her bosom, bowing 
her head and bending her body as a sign that she returned 
thanks. From her silence they concluded that she must be a 
Moor and unable to speak a Christian tongue. 

At this moment the captive ^ came up, having been until 
now otherwise engaged, and seeing that they all stood round 
his companion and that she made no reply to what they ad- 
dressed to her, he said, Ladies, this damsel hardly under- 
stands my language and can speak none but that of her own 
* Cervantes forgets that he has not as yet said anything about his captivity. 

VoL. I. — 21 


822 DON QUIXOTE. 

country, for which reason she does not and can not answer 
what has been asked of her.” 

‘^Nothing has been asked of her,” returned Luscinda; she 
has only been offered our company for this evening and a 
share of the quarters we occupy, where she shall be made 
as comfortable as tha circumstances allow, with the good will 
we are bound to show all strangers that stand in need of it, 
especially if it be a woman to whom the service is rendered.” 

‘‘ On her part and my own, sefiora,” replied the captive, I 
kiss your hands, and I esteem highly, as I ought, the favor 
you have offered, which, on such an occasion and coming from 
persons of your appearance, is, it is plain to see, a very great 
one.” 

Tell me, senor,” said Dorothea, is this lady a Christian 
or a Moor ? for her dress and her silence lead us to imagine 
that she is what we could wish she was not.” 

In dress and outwardly,”* said he, she is a Moor, but at 
heart she is a thoroughly good Christian, for she has the 
greatest desire to become one.” 

“ Then she has not been baptized ?” returned Luscinda. 

There has been no opportunity for that,” replied the cap- 
tive, since she left Algiers, her native country and home; 
and up to the present she has not found herself in any such 
imminent danger of death as to make it necessary to baptize 
her before she has been instructed in all the ceremonies our 
holy mother Church ordains ; but, please God, ere long she 
shall be baptized with the solemnity befitting her quality, 
which is higher than her dress or mine indicates.” 

By these words he excited a desire in all who heard them 
to know who the Moorish lady and the captive were, but no 
one liked to ask just then, seeing that it was a fitter moment 
for helping them to rest themselves than for questioning them 
about their lives. Dorothea took the Moorish lady by the hand 
and leading her to a seat beside herself, requested her to re- 
move her veil. She looked at the captive as if to ask him what 
they meant and what she, was to do. He said to her in Arabic 
that they asked her to take off her veil, and thereupon she 
removed it and disclosed a countenance so lovely, that to Doro- 
thea she seemed more beautiful than Luscinda, and to Luscinda 
more beautiful than Dorothea, and all the by-standers felt that if 
any beauty could compare with theirs it was the Moorish lady’s, 
and there were even those who were inclined to give it somewhat 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


323 


the preference. And as it is the privilege and charm of beauty 
to win the heart and secure good-will, all forthwith became 
eager to show kindness and attention to the lovely Moor. 

Don Fernando asked the captive what her name was, and he 
replied that it was Lela Zoraida ; but the instant she heard 
him, she guessed what the Christian had asked, and said hastily, 
with some displeasure and energy, No, not Zoraida ; Maria, 
Maria ! ” giving them to understand that she was called Maria ” 
and not Zoraida.’’ These words, and the touching earnest- 
ness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from 
some of the listeners, particularly the women, who are by nat- 
ure tender-hearted and compassionate. Luscinda embraced her 
affectionately, saying, Yes, yes, Maria, Maria,” to which the 
Moor replied, Yes, yes, Maria; Zoraida macange,” ^ which 
means not Zoraida.” 

Night was now approaching, and by the orders of those who 
accompanied Don Fernando the landlord had taken care and 
pains to prepare for them the best supper that was in his power. 
The hour, therefore, having arrived they all took their seats at 
a long table like a refectory one, for round or square table 
there was none in the inn, and the seat of honor at the head of 
it, though he was for refusing it, they assigned to Don Quixote, 
who desired the lady Micomicona to place herself by his side, 
as he was her protector. Luscinda and Zoraida took their 
places next her, opposite to them were Don Fernando and 
Cardenio, and next the captive and the other gentlemen, and by 
the side of the ladies, the curate and the barber. And so they 
supped in high enjoyment, which was increased when they ob- 
served Don Quixote leave off eating, and, moved by an impulse 
like that which made him deliver himself at such length when 
he supped with the goatherds, began to address them : 

‘‘ Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvel- 
lous are the things they see, who make profession of the order 
of knight-errantry. Nay, what being is there in this world, 
who entering the gate of this castle at this moment, and seeing 
us as we are here, would suppose or imagine us to be what we 
are ? Who would say that this lady who is beside me was the 
great queen that we all know her to be, or that I am that 
Knight of the Eueful Countenance, trumpeted far and wide 
by the mouth of Fame ? Now, there can be no doubt that 

’ Properly ma-kan-shy — the common emphatic negative in populai 
Arabic, at least in the Barbary States. 


B24 


DON QUIXOTE. 


this art and calling surpasses all those that mankind has in- 
vented, and is the more deserving of being held in honor in 
proportion as it is the more exposed to peril. Away with 
those who assert that letters have the pre-eminence over arms ; 
I will tell them, whosoever they may be, that they know not 
what they say. For the reason which such persons commonly 
assign, and upon which they chiefly rest, is, that the labors of 
the mind are greater than those of the body, and that arms 
give employment to the body alone ; as if the calling were a 
porter’s trade, for which nothing more is required than sturdy 
strength; or as if, in what we who profess them call arms, 
there were not included acts of vigor for the execution of 
which high intelligence is requisite ; or as if the soul of the 
warrior, when he has an army, or the defence of a city under 
his care, did not exert itself as much by mind as by body. 
Nay ; see whether by bodily strength it be possible to learn or 
divine the intentions of the enemy, his plans, stratagems, or 
obstacles, or to ward off impending mischief ; for all these are 
the work of the mind, and in them the body has no share 
whatever. Since, therefore, arms have need of the mind, as 
much as letters, let us see now which of the two minds, that 
of the man of letters ^ or that of the warrior, has most to do ; 
and this will be seen by the end and goal that each seeks to 
attain ; for that purpose is the more estimable which has for 
its aim the nobler object. The end and goal of letters — I am 
not speaking now of divine letters, the aim of which is to 
raise and direct the soul to Heaven ; for with an end so in- 
finite no other can be compared — I speak of human letters, 
the end of which is to establish distributive justice, give to 
every man that which is his, and see and take care that good 
laws are observed: an end undoubtedly noble, lofty, and 
deserving of high praise, but not such as should be given to 
that sought by arms, which have for their end and object 
peace, the greatest boon that men can desire in this life. The 
first good news the world and mankind received was that 
which the angels announced on the night that was our day, 
when they sang in the air, ‘ Glory to God in the highest, and 
peace on earth to men of good will ; ’ and the salutation which 
the great Master of heaven and earth taught his disciples and 
chosen followers when they entered any house, was to say, 

^ " Man of letters ” — letrado^ as will be seen, means here specially one 
devoted to jurisprudence. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


325 


* Peace be on this house ; ’ and many other times he said to 
them, ‘ My peace I give unto you, my peace I leave you, peace 
be with you;’ a jewel and a precious gift given and left by 
such a hand : a jewel without which there can be no happiness 
either on earth or in heaven. This peace is the true end of 
war; and war is only another name for arms. This, then, 
being admitted, that the end of war is peace, and that so far 
it has the advantage of the end of letters, let us turn to the 
bodily labors of the man of letters, and those of him who 
follows the profession of arms, and see which are the 
greater.” 

Don Quixote delivered his discourse in such a manner and 
in such correct language, that for the time being he made it 
impossible for any of his hearers to consider him a madman ; 
on the contrary, as they were mostly gentlemen, to whom arms 
are an appurtenance by birth, they listened to him with great 
pleasure as he continued : Here, then, I say is what the 
student has to undergo ; first of all poverty ; not that all are 
poor, but to put the case as strongly as possible : and when I 
have said that he endures poverty, I think nothing more need 
be said about his hard fortune, for he who is poor has no share 
of the good things of life. This poverty he suffers from in 
various ways, hunger, or cold, or nakedness, or all together ; 
but for all that it is not so extreme but that he gets something 
to eat, though it may be at somewhat unseasonable hours and 
from the leavings of the rich ; for the greatest misery of the 
student is what they themselves call ^ going out for soup,’ ^ and 
there is always some neighbor’s brazier or hearth for them, 
which, if it does not warm, at least tempers the cold to them, 
and lastly, they sleep comfortably at night under a roof. I 
will not go into other particulars, as for example want of 
shirts, and no superabundance of shoes, thin and threadbare 
garments, and gorging themselves to surfeit in their voracity 
when good luck has treated them to a banquet of some sort. 
By this road that I have described, rough and hard, stumbling 
here, failing there, getting up again to fall again, they reach 
the rank they desire, and that once attained, we have seen 
many who have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charyb- 
dises, as if borne fiying on the wings of favoring fortune ; we 

^ Andar & la sopa — to attend at the convents where soup is given out 
to the poor. The convent soup, as Quevedo says in the Gran Tacano^ 
was also a great resource of the picaro class- 


326 


DON QUIXOTE. 


have seen them, I say, ruling and governing the world from a 
chair, their hunger turned into satiety, their cold into comfort, 
their nakedness into fine raiment, their sleep on a mat into 
repose in holland and damask, the justly earned reward of 
their virtue; but, contrasted and compared with what the 
warrior undergoes, all they have undergone falls short of it, 
as I am now about to show.” 


CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE 
DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS. 

Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said : As we began 
in the student’s case with poverty and its accompaniments, let 
us see now if the soldier is richer, and we shall find that in 
poverty itself there is no one poorer ; for he is dependent on 
his miserable pay, which comes late or never, or else on what 
he can plunder, seriously imperilling his life and conscience ; 
and sometimes his nakedness will be so great that a slashed 
doublet serves him for uniform and shirt, and in the depth of 
winter he has to defend himself against the inclemency of the 
weather in the open field with nothing better than the breath 
of his mouth, which I need not say, coming from an empty 
place, must come out cold, contrary to the laws of nature. To 
bo sure he looks forward to the approach of night to make up 
for all these discomforts on the bed that awaits him, which, 
unless by some fault of his, never sins by being over narrow, 
for he can easily measure out on the ground as many feet as he 
likes, and roll himself about in it to his heart’s content without 
any fear of the sheets slipping away from him. Then, after 
all this, suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in his 
calling to have come ; suppose the day of battle to have ar- 
rived, when they invest him with the doctor’s cap made of lint, 
to mend some bullet-hole, perhaps, that has gone through his 
temples, or left him with a crippled arm or leg. Or if this 
does not happen, and merciful Heaven watches over him and 
keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the same 
poverty he was in before, and he must go through more en- 
gagements and more battles, and come victorious out of all 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 


327 


before he betters himself ; but miracles of that sort are seldom 
seen. For tell me, sirs, if you have ever reflected upon it, by 
how much do those who have gained by war fall short of the 
number of those who have perished in it ? No doubt you will 
reply that there can be no comparison, that the dead can not 
be numbered, while the living who have been rewarded may be 
summed up with three figures.^ All which is the reverse in 
the case of men of letters ; for by skirts, to say nothing of 
sleeves,^ they all find means of support ; so that though the 
soldier has more to endure, his reward is much less. But 
against all this it may be urged that it is easier to reward two 
thousand men of letters than thirty thousand soldiers, for the 
former may be remunerated by giving them places, which must 
perforce be conferred upon men of their calling, while the lat- 
ter can only be recompensed out of the very property of the 
master they serve ; but this impossibility only strengthens my 
argument. 

Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question 
for which it is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the 
superiority of arms over letters, a matter still undecided, so 
many are the arguments put forward on each side ; for besides 
those I have mentioned, letters say that without them arms 
can not maintain themselves, for war, too, has its laws and is 
governed by them, and laws belong to the domain of letters 
and men of letters. To this arms make answer that without 
them laws can not be maintained, for by arms states are de- 
fended, kingdoms preserved, cities protected, roads made safe, 
seas cleared of pirates ; and, in short, if it were not for them, 
states, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, ways by sea and land 
would be exposed to the violence and confusion which war 
brings with it, so long as it lasts and is free to make use of its 
privileges and powers. And then it is plain that whatever 
costs most is valued and deserves to be valued most. To 
attain to eminence in letters costs a man time, watching, 
hunger, nakedness, headaches, indigestions, and other things 
of the sort, some of which I have already referred to. But 
for a man to come in the ordinary course of things to be a 
good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and in an in- 
comparably higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk 

^ i.e. fall short of 1,000. 

^ Clemencin explains this as ”in one way or another.” Another ex- 
planation is that by skirts (faldas) regular salary is meant, and by sleevei 
(^mangas) douceurs, perquisites, and the like. 


328 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of losing his life. For what dread of want or poverty that 
can reach or harass the student can compare with what the 
soldier feels, who finds himself beleaguered in some stronghold 
mounting guard in some ravelin or cavalier, know^s that the 
enemy is pushing a mine towards the post where he is sta- 
tioned, and can not under any circumstances retire or fly from 
the imminent danger that threatens him ? All he can do is 
to inform his captain of what is going on so that he may try 
to remedy it by a counter-mine, and then stand his ground in 
fear and expectation of the moment when he will fly up to the 
clouds without wings and descend into the deep against his 
will. And if this seems a trifling risk, let us see whether it is 
equalled or surpassed by the encounter of two galleys stem to 
stem, in the midst of the open sea, locked and entangled one 
with the other, when the soldier has no more standing room 
than two feet of the plank of the spur ; and yet, though he 
sees before him threatening him as many ministers of death as 
there are cannon of the foe pointed at him, not a lance length 
from his body, and sees too that with the first heedless step he 
will go down to visit the profundities of Neptune’s bosom, still 
with dauntless heart, urged on by honor that nerves him, he 
makes himself a target for all that musketry, and struggles to 
cross that narrow path to the enemy’s ship. And w'hat is still 
more marvellous, no sooner has one gone down into the depths 
he will never rise from till the end of the world, than another 
takes his place ; and if he too falls into the sea that waits for 
him like an enemy, another and another will succeed him with- 
out a moment’s pause between their deaths : courage and 
daring the greatest that all the chances of war can show.^ 
Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread fury of those 
devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am persuaded is 
in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention, by 
which he made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the 
life of a gallant gentleman ; and that, when he knows not how 
or whence, in the height of the ardor and enthusiasm that 
fire and animate brave hearts, there should come some random 
bullet, discharged perhaps by one who fled in terror at the 
flash when he fired off his accursed machine, w^hich in an 
instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life of one 
who deserves to live for ages to come. And thus when I 

‘ We have here, no doubt, a personal reminiscence of Lepanto. It was in 
an affair somewhat of this sort that Cervantes himself received his wounds. 


CHAPTER XXXVI n. 


329 


reflect on this, 1 am almost tempted to say that in my heart 1 
repent of having adopted this profession of knight-errant in so 
detestable an age as we live in now ; for though no peril can 
make me fear, still it gives me some uneasiness to think that 
powder and lead may rob me of the opportunity of making 
myself famous and renowned throughout the known earth by 
the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But Heaven’s 
will be done ; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the 
more honored, as I have faced greater dangers than the 
knights-errant of yore exposed themselves to.” 

All this lengthy discourse Hon Quixote delivered while the 
others supped, forgetting to raise a morsel to his lips, though 
Sancho more than once told him to eat his supper, as he would 
have time enough afterwards to say all he wanted. It excited 
fresh pity in those who had heard him to see a man of appar- 
ently sound sense, and with rational views on every subject he 
discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when his wretched un- 
lucky chivalry was in question. The curate told him he was 
quite right in all he had said in favor of arms, and that he 
himself, though a man of letters and a graduate, was of the same 
opinion. 

They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while 
the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes were getting Hon 
Quixote of La Mancha’s garret ready, in which it was arranged 
that the women were to be quartered by themselves for the 
night, Hon Hernando begged the captive to tell them the story 
of his life, for it could not fail to be strange and interesting, to 
judge by the hints he had let fall on his arrival in company 
with Zoraida. To this the captive replied that he would very 
willingly yield to his request, only he feared his tale would not 
give them as much pleasure as he wished ; nevertheless, not to 
be wanting in compliance, he -would tell it. The curate and 
the others thanked him and added their entreaties, and he 
finding himself so pressed said there was no occasion to ask, 
where a command had such weight, and added, If your wor- 
ships will give me your attention you will hear a true story 
which, perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with ingenious and 
studied art can not come up to. ” These words made them set- 
tle themselves in their places and preserve a deep silence, and 
he seeing them waiting on his words in mute expectation, 
began thus in a pleasant quiet voice. 


380 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES, 

Mr family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon,* 
and nature had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune ; 
though in the general poverty of those communities my father passed 
for being even a rich man ; and he would have been so in reality had 
he been as clever in preserving his property as he was in spending 
it. This tendency of his to be liberal and profuse he had acquired 
from having been a soldier in his youth, for the soldier’s life is a 
school in which the niggard becomes free-handed, and the free- 
handed prodigal ; and if any soldiers are to be found who are misers, 
they are monsters of rare occurrence. My father went beyond liber- 
ality and bordered on prodigality, a disposition by no means advan- 
tageous to a married man who has children to succeed to his name 
and position. My father had three, all sons, and all of sufficient age 
to make choice of a profession. Finding, then, that he was unable 
to resist his propensity, he resolved to divest himself of the instru- 
ment and cause of his prodigality and lavishness, to divest himself 
of wealth, without which Alexander himself would have seemed 
parsimonious ; and so calling us all three aside one day into a room, 
he addressed us in words somewhat to the following effect : 

“ My sons, to assure you that I love you, no more need be known 
or said than that you are my sons ; and to encourage a suspicion that 
I do not love you, no more is needed than the knowledge that 1 have 
no self-control as far as preservation of jmur patrimony is concerned ; 
therefore, that you may for the future feel sure that I love you like a 
father, and have no wish to ruin you like a stepfather, I propose to 
do with you what 1 have for some time back meditated, and after 
mature deliberation decided upon. You are now of an age to choose 
your line of life or at least make choice of a calling that will bring 
you honor and profit when you are older; and what 1 have resolved 
to do is to divide my property into four parts ; three I will give to 
you, to each his portion without making any difference, and the other 
I will retain to live upon and support myself for whatever remainder 
of life Heaven may be pleased to grant me. But I wish each of you 
on taking possession of the share that falls to him to follow one of 
the paths 1 shall indicate. In this Spain of ours there is a proverb, 
to my mind very true — as they all are, being short aphorisms drawn 
from long practical experience — and the one I refer to says, ‘The 
church, or the sea, or the king’s house ; ’ ® as much as to say, in 
plainer language, whoever wants to flourish and become rich, let 

* " Montanas de Burgos ” and " Montanas de Leon ” were the names 
given to the southern slopes of the western continuation of the Pyrenees, 
the cradle of most of the old Gothic families of Spain, that of Cervantes 
himself among the number. 

*Prov. 121. 


CHAPTER XXXIX, 


331 


him follow the church, or go to sea, adopting commerce as his call- 
ing, or go into the king’s service in his household, for they say, 
‘ Better a king’s crumb than a lord’s favor.’ * I say so because it is 
my will and pleasure that one of you should follow letters, another 
trade, and the third serve the king in the wars, for it is a difficult 
matter to gain admission to his service in his household, and if war 

nd fame. 
, without 
Now tell 

me if you are willing to follow out my idea and advice as I have laid 
it before you.” 

Having called upon me as the eldest to answer, I, after urging him 
not to strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he pleased, 
for we were young men able to gain our living, consented to comply 
with his wishes, and said that mine were to follow the profession of 
pms and thereby serve God and my king. My second brother hav- 
ing made the same proposal, decided upon going to the Indies, 
embarking the portion that fell to him in trade. The youngest, and 
in my opinion the wisest, said he would rather follow the church, or 
go to complete his studies at Salamanca. As soon as we had come 
to an understanding, and made choice of our professions, my father 
embraced us all, and in the short time he mentioned carried into 
effect all he had promised ; and when he had given to each his share, 
which as well as I remember was three thousand ducats apiece in 
cash (for an uncle of ours bought the estate and paid for it down, 
not to let it go out of the family), we all three on the same day took 
leave of our good father; and at the same time, as it seemed to me 
inhuman to leave my father with such scanty means in his old age, 
I induced him to take two of my three thousand ducats, as the 
remainder would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed. 
My two brothers, moved by my example, gave him each a thousand 
ducats, so that there was left for my father four thousand ducats 
in money, besides three thousand, tlie value of the portion that fell 
to him which he preferred to retain in land instead of selling it. 
Finally, as I said, we took leave of him, and of our uncle whom I 
have mentioned, not without sorrow and tears on both sides, they 
charging us to let them know whenever an opportunity offered how 
we fared, whether well or ill. We promised to do so, and when he 
had embraced us and given us his blessing, one set out for Salamanca, 
the other for Seville, and I for Alicante, where I had heard there was 
a Genoese vessel taking in a cargo of wool for Genoa. 

It is now some twenty-two years since I left my father’s house, 
and all that time, though I have written several letters, I have had 
no news whatever of him or of my brothers ; my own adventures 
during that period I will now relate briefly. I embarked at Alicante, 
reached Genoa after a prosperous voyage, and proceeded thence to 
Milan, where I provided myself with arms and a few soldier’s 
accoutrements ; then it was my intention to go and take service in 
Piedmont, but as I was already on the road to Alessandria della 

‘Prov. 202. 


not bring much wealth it confers great distinction „ 
Eight days hence I will give you your full shares in money 
defrauding jmu of a farthing, as you will see in the end. 


832 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Paglia, I learned that the great Duke of Alva was on his way to 
Flanders.* 1 changed my plans, joined him, served under him in 
the campaigns he made, was present at the deaths of the Counts 
Egmont and Horn, and was promoted to be ensign under a famous 
captain of Guadalajara, Diego de Urbina by name.** Some time after 
my arrival in Flanders news came of the league that his Holiness 
Pope Pius V. of happy memory had made with Venice and Spain 
against the common enemy, the Turk, who had just then with his 
fleet taken the famous island of Cyprus, which belonged to the 
Venetians, a loss deplorable and disastrous. It was known as a fact 
that the Most Serene Don John of Austria, natural brother of our 
good king Don Philip, was coming as commander-iti'Chief of the 
allied forces, and rumors were abroad of the vast warlike prepara- 
tions which were being made, all which stirred my heart and filled 
me with a longing to take part in the campaign which was expected ; 
and though 1 had reason to believe, and most certain promises, that 
on the first opportunity that presented itself I should be promoted 
to be captain, 1 preferred to leave all and betake myself, as I did, 
to Italy ; and it was my good fortune that Don John had just arrived 
at Genoa, and was going on to Naples to join the Venetian fleet, as 
he afterwards did at Messina. I may say, in short, that I took part 
in that glorious expedition, promoted by this time to be a captain of 
infantry, to which honorable charge my good luck rather than my 
merits raised me; and that day — so fortunate for Christendom, be- 
cause then all the nations of the earth were disabused of the error 
under which they lay in imagining the Turks to be invincible on sea 
— on that day, I say, on which the Ottoman pride and arrogance were 
broken, among all that were there made happy (for the Christians 
who died that day were happier than those who remained alive and 
victorious) I alone was miserable ; for, instead of some naval crown 
that I might have expected had it been in Roman times, on the night 
that followed that famous day I found myself with fetters on my 
feet and manacles on my hands. 

It happened in this way : El Uchali,^ the King of Algiers, a daring 
and successful corsair, having attacked and taken the leading Mal- 
tese galley (only three knights being left alive in it, and they badly 
wounded), the chief galley of John Andrea,^ on board of which I 
and my company were placed, came to its relief, and doing as I was 
bound to do in such a case, I leaped on board the enemy’s galley, 
which, sheering off from that which had attacked it, prevented my 
men from following me, and so I found myself alone in the midst of 
my enemies, who were in such numbers that I was unable to resist; 
in short I was taken, covered with wounds ; El Uchali, as you know, 
sirs, made his escape with his entire squadron, and I was left a pris- 

* Alva went to Flanders in 1567, so that the present scene would be 
laid in 1589 ; but Cervantes paid no attention to chronology. 

** This was the captain of the company in Diego da Moncada’s regiment 
In which Cervantes first served. 

® Properly — Aluch Ali. 

* John Andrea Doria, nephew of the great Andrea Doria. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


333 


oner in his power, the only sad being among so many filled with joy, 
and the only captive among so many free ; for there were fifteen 
thousand Christians, all at the oar in the Turkish fleet, that regained 
their longed-for liberty that day. 

They carried me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk, Selim, 
made my master general at sea for having done his duty in the bat- 
tle and carried off as evidence of his bravery the standard of the 
Order of Malta. The following year, which was the year sevent}^- 
two, I found myself at Navarino rowing in the leading galley with the 
three lanterns. ‘ There I saw and observed how the opportunity of 
capturing the whole Turkish fleet in harbor was lost; for ail the 
marines and janizzaries that belonged to it made sure that they were 
about to be attacked inside the very harbor, and had their kits and 
pasamaques, or shoes, ready to flee at once on shore without waiting 
to be assailed, in so great fear did they stand of our fleet. But 
Heaven ordered it otherwise, not for any fault or neglect of the gen- 
eral who commanded on our side, but for the sins of Christendom, 
and because it was God’s will and pleasure that we should always 
have instruments of punishment to chastise us. As it was, El Uchali 
took refuge at Modon, which is an island near Navarino, and landing 
his forces fortified the mouth of the harbor and waited quietly until 
Don John retired. On this expedition was taken the galley called 
the Prize, whose captain was a son of the famous corsair Barbarossa. 
It was taken by the chief Neapolitan galley called the She-wolf, com- 
manded by that thunderbolt of war, that father of his men, that suc- 
cessful and unconquered captain Don Alvaro de Bazan, Marquis of 
Santa Cruz ; and I cannot help telling you what look place at the 
capture of the Prize. 

The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so 
badly, that, when those who were at the oars saw that the She-wolf 
galley was bearing down upon them and gaining upon them, they 
all at once dropped their oars and seized their captain who stood on 
the stage at the end of the gangway shouting to them to row lustily ; 
and passing him on from bench to bench, from the poop to the prow, 
they so bit him that before he had got much past the mast his soul 
haci already got to hell ; so great, as I said, was the cruelty with 
which he treated them, and the hatred with which they hated him. 

We returned to Constantinople, and the following year, seventy- 
three, it became known that Don John had seized Tunis and taken 
the kingdom from the Turks, and placed Muley Hametin possession, 
putting an end to the hopes which Muley Hamida, the cruelest and 
bravest Moor in the world, entertained of returning to reign there. 
The Grand Turk took the loss greatly to heart, and with the cunning 
which all his race possess, he made peace with the Venetians (who 
were much more eager for it than he was), and the following year, 
seventy-four, he attacked the Goletta,’-* and the fort which Don John 
had left half built near Tunis. While all these events were occur- 

^ The distinguishing mark of the admiral’s galley. 

* The fort commanding the entrance, the " gullet,” to the lagoon of 
Tunis. 


334 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ring, I was laboring at the oar without any hope of freedom ; at least 
1 had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for I was firmly resolved 
not to write to my father telling him of my misfortunes. At length 
the Goletta fell, and the fort fell, before which places there were 
seventy-five thousand regular Turkish soldiers, and more than four 
hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from all parts of Africa, and in 
the train of all this great host such munitions and engines of war, 
and so many pioneers that with their hand they might have covered 
the Goletta and the fort with handfuls of earth. The first to fall was 
the Goletta, until then reckoned impregnable, and it fell, not by any 
fault of its defenders, who did all that they could and should have 
done, but because experiment proved how easily intrenchments could 
be made in the desert sand there ; for water used to be found at two 
palms depth, while the Turks found none at two yards; and so by 
means of a quantity of sandbags they raised their works so high that 
they commanded the walls of the fort, sweeping them as if from a 
cavalier, so that no one was able to make a stand or maintain the 
defence. 

It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut them- 
selves up in the Goletta, but should have waited in the open at the 
landing-place ; but those who say so talk at random and with little 
knowledge of such matters ; for if in the Goletta and in the fort there 
were barely seven thousand soldiers, how could such a small number, 
however resolute, sally out and hold their own against numbers like 
those of the enemy ? And how is it possible to help losing a strong- 
hold that is not relieved, above all when surrounded by a host of 
determined enemies in their own country ? But many thought, and 
I thought so too, that it was a special favor and mercy which Heaven 
showed to Spain in permitting the destruction of that source and 
hiding-place of mischief, that devourer, sponge, and moth of count- 
less money, fruitlessly wasted there to no other purpose save pre- 
serving the memory of its capture by the invincible Charles V. ; as 
if to make that eternal, as it is and will be, these stones were needed 
to support it. The fort also fell ; but the Turks had to win it inch 
by inch, for the soldiers who defended it fought so gallantly and 
stoutly that the number of the enemy killed in twenty-two general 
assaults exceeded twenty-five thousand. Of three hundred that re- 
mained alive not one was taken unvvounded, a clear and manifest 
proof of their gallantry and resolution, and how sturdily they had 
defended themselves and held their post. A small fort or tower 
which was in the middle of the lagoon under the command of Don 
Juan Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and a famous soldier, ca- 
pitulated upon terms. They took prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrero. 
commandant of the Goletta, who had done all in his power to defend 
his fortress, and took the loss of it so much to heart that he died of 
grief on the way to Constantinople, where they were carrying him a 
prisoner. They also took the commandant of the fort, Gabrio Cer- 
bellon * by name, a Milanese gentleman, a great engineer and a very 
brave soldier. In these two fortresses perished many persons of 

* Or Serbelloni. 


CHAPTER XXXIX, 


335 


note, among: whom was Pa^ano Doria, knight of the Order of St. 
John, a man of generous disposition, as was shown by his extreme 
liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea Doria; and what 
made his death the more sad was that he was slain by some Arabs 
to whom, seeing that the fort was now lost, he intrusted himself, and 
who offered to conduct him in the disguise of a Moor to Tabarca, a 
small fort or station on the coast held by the Genoese employed in 
the coral fishery. These Arabs cut off his head and carried it to the 
commander of the Turkish fleet, who proved on them the truth of 
our Castilian proverb, that “ though the treason may please, the 
traitor is hated ; ” * for they say he ordered those who brought him 
the present to be hanged for not having brought him alive. 

Among the Christians who were taken in the fort was one named 
Don Pedro de Aguilar, a native of some place, I know not what, in 
Andalusia, who had been ensign in the fort, a soldier of great repute 
and rare intelligence, who had in particular a special gift for what 
they call poetry. I say so because his fate brought him to my galley 
and to my bench, and made him a slave to the same master ; and 
before we left the port this gentleman composed two sonnets by way 
of epitaphs, one on the Goletta and the other on the fort ; indeed, I 
may as well repeat them, for I have them by heart, and I think they 
will be liked rather than disliked. 

The instant the captain mentioned the name of Don Pedro 
de Aguilar, Don Fernando looked at his companions and they 
all three smiled ; and when he came to speak of the sonnets 
one of them said, Before your worship proceeds any further 
I entreat you to tell me what became of that Don Pedro de 
Aguilar you have spoken of.” 

All I know is,” replied the captive, that after having 
been in Constantinople two years, he escaped in the disguise 
of an Arnaut, in company with a Greek spy ; but whether he 
regained his liberty or not I cannot tell, though I fancy he 
did, because a year afterwards I saw the Greek at Constanti- 
nople, though I was unable to ask him what the result of the 
journey was.” 

Well then, you are right,” returned the gentleman, for 
that Don Pedro is my brother, and he is now in our village in 
good health, rich, married, and with three children.” ^ 

Thanks be to God for all the mercies he has shown him,” 
said the captive ; for to my mind there is no happiness on 
earth to compare with recovering lost liberty.” 

* Prov. 230. 

2 The memories of this Don Pedro de Aguilar were printed in 1755 by 
the Sociedad de Bibliofilos Espanoles. 


336 


DON QUIXOTE. 


<^And what is more,” said the gentleman, know the 
sonnets my brother made.” 

Then let your worship repeat them,” said the captive, for 
you will recite them better than I can.” 

^‘With all my heart,” said the gentleman; <^that on the 
Goletta runs thus.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED. 
SONNET.^ 

Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free, 

In guerdon of brave deeds beatified. 

Above this lowly orb of ours abide 
Made heirs of heaven and immortality, 

With noble rage and ardor glowing ye 

Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied, 
And with your own blood and the foeman’s dyed 
The sandy soil and the encircling sea. 

It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed 
The weary arms ; the stout hearts never quailed. 

Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor’s crown ; 
Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall ; 

Eor there ye won, between the sword and wall. 

In Heaven glory and on earth renown.” 

That is it exactly, according to my recollection,” said the 
captive. 

Well then, that on the fort,” said the gentleman, ^‘'if my 
memory serves me, goes thus : 

SONNET. 

up from this wasted soil, this shattered shell. 

Whose walls and towers here in ruin lie. 

Three thousand soldier souls took wing on high. 

In the bright mansions of the blest to dwell. 

* Clemencin says the merits of this sonnet are slender, and that the 
next is no better. He particularly objects to the idea of souls dyeing the 
sea with their blood. But Clemencin had no bowels of compassion for 
the straits of a sonneteer. 


CHAPTER XL. 


337 


The onslaught of the foeman to repel 
By might of arm all vainly did they try, 

And when at length ’t was left them but to die, 
Wearied and few the last defenders fell. 

And this same arid soil hath ever been 
A haunt of countless mournful memories, 

As well in our day as in days of yore. 

But never yet to Heaven it sent, I ween. 

From its hard bosom purer souls than these. 

Or braver bodies on its surface bore.’’ 

The sonnets were not disliked, and the captive was rejoiced 
at the tidings they gave him of his comrade, and continuing 
his tale, he went on to say: 

The Goletta and the fort being thus in their hands, the Turks gave 
orders to dismantle the Goletta — for the fort was reduced to such a 
state that there was nothing left to level — and to do the work more 
quickly and easily they mined it in three places ; but nowhere were 
they able to blow up the part which seemed to be the least strong, 
that is to say, the old walls, while all that remained standing of the 
new fortifications that the Fratin * had made came to the ground with 
the greatest ease. Finally the fleet returned victorious and triumph- 
ant to Constantinople, and a few months later died my master, El 
Uchali, otherwise Uchali Fartax, which means in Turkish “the 
scabby renegade ; ” for that he was ; it is the practice with the Turks 
to name people from some defect or virtue they may possess; the 
reason being that there are among them only four surnames belong- 
ing to families tracing their descent from the Ottoman house, and 
the others, as I have said, take their names and surnames either from 
bodily blemishes or moral qualities. This “ scabby one ” rowed at 
the oar as a slave of the Grand Signor’s for fourteen years, and 
when over thirty-four years of age. in resentment at having been 
struck by a Turk while at the oar, turned renegade and renounced 
his faith in order to be able to revenge himself ; and such was his valor 
that, without owing his advancement to the base ways and means 
by which most favorites of the Grand Signor rise to power, he came 
to be king of Algiers, and afterwards general-on-sea, which is the 
third place of trust in the realm. He was a Calabrian by birth, and 
a worthy man morally, and he treated his slaves with great humanity. 
He had three thousand of them, and after his death they were divided, 
as he directed by his will, between the Grand Signor (who is heir of 
all who die and shares with the children of the deceased) and his 
renegades. I fell to the lot of a Venetian renegade who, when a 
cabin-boy on board a ship, had been taken by Uchali and was so 
much beloved by him that he became one of his most favored youths. 

^ Fratin, '' the little friar,” the name by which Jacome Palearo went. 
VoL. I. — 22 


338 


DON QUIXOTE. 


He came to be the most cruel renegade I ever saw : his name was 
Hassan Aga,* and he grew very rich and became king of Algiers. 
With him i went there from Constantinople, rather glad to be so near 
Spain, not that 1 intended to write to any one about my unhappy lot, 
but to try if fortune would be kinder to me in Algiers than in Con- 
stantinople, where 1 had attempted in a thousand ways to escape 
without ever finding a favorable time or chance ; but in Algiers I 
resolved to seek for other means of effecting the purpose I cherished 
so dearly; for the hope of obtaining my liberty never deserted me; 
and when in my plots and schemes and attempts the result did not 
answer my expectations, without giving way to despair I immediately 
began to look out for or conjure up some new hope to support me, 
however faint or feeble it might be.^ 

In this way I lived on immured in a building or prison called by 
the Turks a bano,^ in which they confine the Christian captives, as 
well those that are the king’s as those belonging to private individu- 
als, and also what they call those of the Almacen, which is as much 
as to say the slaves of the municipality, who serve the city in the 
public works and other employments; but captives of this kind 
recover their liberty with great difficulty, for, as they are public 
property and have lio particular master, there is no one with whom 
to treat for their ransom, even though they may have the means. 
To these banos, as I have said, some private individuals of the town 
are in the habit of bringing their captives, especially when they are 
to be ransomed ; because there they can keep them in safety and 
comfort until their ransom arrives. The king’s captives also, that 
are on ransom, do not go out to work with the rest of the crew, 
unless when their ransom is delayed; for then, to make them write 
for it more pressingly, they compel them to work and go for wood, 
which is no light labor. 

I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was dis- 
covered that I was a captain, although I declared my scanty means 
and want of fortune, nothing could dissuade them from including 
me among the gentlemen and those waiting to be ransomed. They 
put a chain on me, more as a mark of this than to keep me safe, and 
so I i^assed my life in that bano with several other gentlemen and 
persons of quality marked out as held to ransom ; but though at 
times, or rather almost always, we suffered from hunger and scanty 
clothing, nothing distressed us so much as hearing and seeing at 

* This should be Hassan Pacha : Hassan Aga died in 1543. 

2 The story of the captive, it is needless to say, is not the story of Cer- 
vantes himself ; but it is colored throughout by his own experiences, and 
he himself speaks in the person of the captive. In the above passage, for 
example, we have an expression of the indomitable spirit that supported 
him, not only in captivity, but in the struggles of his later life. 

^ The barrack or building in which slaves w ere kept. Littre explains 
it by saying that a " bath ” — hagne^ hano — was on one occasion used as 
a place of confinement for Christian slaves at Constantinople. Conde, on 
the other hand, says the word has nothing to do with bano — bath, but ii 
pure Arabic, and means a building coated with plaster or stucco. 


CHAPTER XL. 


339 


every turn the unexampled and unheard-of cruelties my master in* 
dieted upon the Christians. Every day he hanged a man, impaled 
one, cut olf the ears of another; and all with so little provocation, 
or so entirely without any, that the Turks acknowledged he did it 
merely for the sake of doing it, and because he was by nature 
murderously disposed towards the whole human race. The only 
one that fared at all well with him was a Spanish soldier, something 
de Saavedra * by name, to whom he never gave a blow himself, or 
ordered a blow to be given, or addressed a hard word, although he 
had done things that will dwell in the memory of the people there 
for many a year, and all to recover his liberty ; and for the least of 
the many things he did we all dreaded that he would be impaled, 
and he himself was in fear of it more than once ; and only that time 
does not allow, 1 could tell you now something of what that soldier 
did, that would interest and astonish you much more than the narra- 
tion of my own tale. 

To go on with my story; the courtyard of our prison was over- 
looked by the windows of the house belonging to a wealthy Moor of 
high position ; and these, as is usual in Moorish houses, were rather 
loopholes than windows, and besides were covered with thick and 
close blinds. It so happened, then, that as I was one day on the 
terrace of our prison with three other comrades, trying, to pass 
away the time, how far we could leap with our chains, we being 
alone, for all the other Christians had gone out to work, I chanced 
to raise my eyes, and from one of these little closed windows I saw 
a reed appear with a cloth attached to the end of it, and it kept wav- 
ing to and fro, and moving as if making signs to us to come and 
take it. We watched it, and one of those who were with me went 
and stood under the reed to see whether they would let it drop, or 
what they would do, but as he did so the reed was raised and moved 
from side to side, as if they meant to say “no” by a shake of the 
head. The Christian came back, and it was again lowered, making 
the same movements as before. Another of my comrades went, and 
with him the same happened as with the first, and then the third 
went forward, but with the same results as the first and second. 
Seeing this I did irot like not to try my luck, and as soon as I came 
under the reed it was dropped and fell inside the bailo at my feet. 
I hastened to untie the cloth, in which I perceived a knot, and in 
lliis were ten cianis, which are coins of base gold, current among the 
Moors, and each worth ten reals of our money. 

It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsend, and my joy was 
not less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fort- 

* This "tal de Saavedra” was of course Cervantes himself. The story 
of his captivity and adventures had been already written by Haedo, but 
did not appear in print till 1612. Rodrigo Mendez Silva was so much 
struck by it that he mentions Cervantes as the most remarkable of the 
descendants of Nuno Alfonso; but, strange to say, though he wrote in 
1648, he does not seem to be aware that he is speaking of the author of 
Don Quixote. Perhaps the good Dryasdust had never heard of such a 
book. 


340 


DON QUIXOTE. 


une could have come to us, but to me specially ; for the evident un* 
willingness to drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for 
me the favor was intended. I took my welcome money, broke the 
reed, and returned to the terrace, and looking up at the window, I 
saw a very white hand put out that opened and shut very quickly. 
From this we gathered or fancied that it must be some woman living 
in that house that had done us this kindness, and to show that we 
were grateful for it, we made salaams after the fashion of the Moors, 
bowing the head, bending the body, and crossing the arms on the 
breast. Shortly afterwards at the same window a small cross made 
of reeds was put out and immediately withdrawn. This sign led us 
to believe that some Christian woman was a captive in the house, 
and that it was she who had been so good to us ; but the whiteness 
of the hand and the bracelets Ave had perceived made us dismiss that 
idea, though we thought it might be one of the Christian renegades 
whom their masters very often take as lawful wives, and gladly, for 
they prefer them to the women of their own nation. In all our con- 
jectures we were wide of the truth ; so from that time forward our 
sole occupation was watching and gazing at the window where the 
cross had appeared to us, as if it were our pole-star ; but at least 
fifteen days passed without our seeing it or the hand, or any other 
sign whatever ; and though meanwhile we endeavored with the ut- 
most pains to ascertain who it was that lived in the house, and whether 
there were any Christian renegade in it, nobody could ever tell us 
anything more than that he who lived there was a rich Moor of 
high position, Hadji Morato by name, formerly alcaide of La Fata,’ 
an ofiioe of high dignity among them. But when we least thought 
it was going to rain any more cianis from that quarter, we saw the 
reed suddenly appear with another cloth tied in a larger knot at- 
tached to it, and this at a time when, as on the former occasion, the 
bano was deserted and unoccupied. 

We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward be- 
fore I did ; but the reed was delivered to none but me, and on my ap- 
proach it was let drop. I untied the knot and 1 found forty Spanish 
gold crowns with a paper written in Arabic, and at the end of the 
writing there was a large cross drawn. I kissed the cross, took the 
crowns and returned to the terrace, and we all made our salaams ; 
again the hand appeared, I made signs that I would read the paper, 
and then the window was closed. We were all puzzled, though filled 
with joy at what had taken place; and as none of us understood 
Arabic, great was our curiosity to know what the paper contained, and 
still greater the difficulty of finding some one to read it. At last I 
resolved to confide in a renegade, a native of Murcia, who professed 
a very great friendship for me, and had given pledges that bound him 
to keep any secret I might intrust to him ; for it is the custom with 
some renegades, when they intend to return to Christian territory, 
to carry about them certificates from captives of mark testifying, in 
whatever form they can, that such and such a renegade is a worthy 
man who has always shown kindness to Christians, and is anxious 

‘ La Fata, a fort near Oran. 


CHAPTER XL. 


841 


to esnape on the first opportunity that may present itself. Some 
obtain these testimonials with good intentions, others put them to a 
cunning use; for when they go to pillage on Christian territory, if 
they chance to be cast away, or taken prisoners, they produce their 
certificates and say that from these papers may be seen the object 
they came for, which was to remain on Christian ground, and that it 
was to this end they joined the Turks in their foray. In this way 
they escape the consequences of the first outburst and make their 
peace with the Church before it does them any harm, and then when 
they have the chance they return to Barbary to become what they 
were before. Others, however, there are who procure these papers 
and make use of them honestly, and remain on Christian soil. This 
friend of mine, then, was one of these renegades that I have de- 
scribed ; he had certificates from all our comrades, in which we tes- 
tified in his favor as strongly as we could ; and if the Moors had 
found the papers they would have burned him alive. 

I knew that he understood Arabic very well, and could not only 
speak but also write it ; but before I disclosed the whole matter to 
him, I asked him to read for me this paper which I had found bj 
accident in a hole in my cell. He opened it and remained some time 
examining it and muttering to himself as he translated it. I asked 
him if he understood it, and he told me he did perfectly well, and 
that if I wished him to tell me its meaning word for word, I must 
give him pen and ink that he might do it more satisfactorily. We 
at once gave him what he required, and he set about translating it 
bit by bit, and when he had done he said, “All that is here in 
Spanish is what the Moorish paper contains, and you must bear in 
mind that when it says, ‘ Lela Marien ’ it means Our Lady the 
Virgin Mary.’ ” We read the paper and it ran thus : 

“ When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me to 
pray the Christian prayer in my own language, and told me many 
things about Lela Marien. The Christian died, and I know that she 
did not go to the fire, but to Allah, because since then I have seen 
her twice, and she told me to go to tiie land of the Christians to see 
Lela Marien, who had great love for me. I know not how to go. 
I have seen many Christians, but except thyself none has seemed to 
me to be a gentleman. I am young and beautiful, and have plenty 
of money to take with me. See if thou canst contrive how we may 
go, and if thou wilt thou shalt be my husband there, and if thou wilt 
not it will not distress me, for Lela Marien will find me some one to 
marry me. I myself have written this : have a care to whom thou 
givest it to read ; trust no Moor, for they are all perfidious. I am 
greatly troubled on this account, for 1 would not have thee confide 
m any one, because if my father knew it he would at once fling me 
down a well and cover me with stones. I will put a thread to the 
reed ; tie the answer to it, and if thou hast no one to write for thee 
in Arabic, tell it to me by signs, for Lela Marien will make me un- 
derstand thee. She and Allah and this cross, which I often kiss as 
the captive bade me, protect thee.” 

Judge, sirs, whether we had reason for surprise and joy at the 


342 


DON QUIXOTE. 


words of this paper ; and both one and the other were so great, that 
the renegade perceived that the paper had not been found by chance, 
but had been in reality addressed to some one of us, and he begged 
us, if what he suspected were the truth, to trust him and tell him 
all, for he would risk his life for our freedom; and so saying he 
look out from his breast a metal crucifix, and with many tears swore 
by the God the image represented, in whom, sinful and wicked as he 
was, he truly and faithfully believed, to be loyal to us and keep 
secret whatever we chose to reveal to him; for he thought and 
almost foresaw that by means of her who had written that paper, he 
and all of us would obtain our liberty, and he himself obtain the 
object he so much desired, his restoration to the bosom of the Holy 
Mother Church, from which by his own sin and ignorance he was 
now severed like a corrupt limb. The renegade said this with so 
many tears and such signs of repentance, that with one consent we 
all agreed to tell him the whole truth of the matter, and so we gave 
him a full account of all, without hiding anything from him. We 
pointed out to him the window at which the reed appeared, and he 
by that means took note of the house, and resolved to ascertain with 
particular care who lived in it. We agreed also that it would-be ad- 
visable to answer the Moorish lady’s letter, and the renegade without 
a moment’s delay took down the words I dictated to him, which were 
exactly what I shall tell you, for nothing of importance that took 
place in this affair has escaped my memory, or ever will while life 
lasts. This, then, was the answer returned to the Moorish lady : 

“ The true Allah protect thee. Lady, and that blessed Marien who 
is the true mother of God, and who has put it into thy heart to go to 
the land of the Christians, be(;ause she loves thee. Entreat her that 
she be pleased to show thee how thou canst execute the command 
she gives thee, for she will, such is her goodness. On my own part, 
and on that of all these Christians who are with me, I promise to do 
all that we can for thee, even to death. Fail not to write to me and 
inform me what thou dost mean to do, and I will always answer 
thee ; for the great Allah has given us a Christian captive who can 
speak and write thy language well, as thou mayest see by this paper : 
without fear, therefore, thou canst inform us of all thou wouldst. 
As to what thou saycst, that if thou dost reach the land of the 
Christians thou wilt be my wife, I give thee my promise upon it as 
a good Christian ; and know that the Christians keep their promises 
better than the Moors. Allah and Marien his mother watch over 
thee, my Lady.” 

The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the 
bano was empty as before, and immediately repaired to the usual 
walk on the terrace to see if there were any sign of the reed, which 
was not long in making its appearance. As soon as I saw it, although 
I could not distinguish who put it out, I showed the paper as a sign 
to attach the thread, but it was already fixed to the reed, and to it I 
tied the paper ; and shortly afterwards our star once more made its 
appearance with the white flag of peace, the little bundle. It was 
dropped, and I picked it up, and found in the cloth, in gold and 


CHAPTER XL. 


343 


silver coins of all sorts, more than fifty crowns, which fifty times 
more doubled our joy and strengthened our hope of gaining our 
liberty. That very night our renegade returned and said he had 
learned that the Moor we had been told of lived in that house, that 
his name was Hadji Morato, that he was enormously rich, that he 
had one only daughter the heiress of all his wealth, and that it was 
the general opinion throughout the city that she was the most beau- 
tiful woman in Barbary, and that several of the viceroys who came 
there had sought her for a wife, but that she had been always un- 
willing to marry; and he had learned, moreover, that she had a 
Christian slave who was now dead ; all which agreed with the con- 
tents of the paper. We immediately took counsel with the renegade 
as to what means would have to be adopted in order to carry off the 
Moorish lady and bring us all to Christian territory ; and in the end 
it was agreed that for the present we should wait for a second com- 
munication from Zoraida (for that was the name of her who now 
desires to be called Maria) , because we saw clearly that she and no 
one else could find a way out of all these difficulties. When we had 
decided upon this the renegade told us not to be uneasy, for he 
would lose his life or restore us to liberty. For four days the bano 
was filled with people, for which reason the reed delayed its appear- 
ance for four days, but at the end of that time, when the bano was, 
as it generally was, empty, it appeared with the cloth so bulky that 
it promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth came down to me, and I 
found another paper and a hundred crowns in gold, without any 
other coin. The renegade was present, and in our cell we gave him 
the paper to read, which he said was to this effect : 

“ 1 can not think of a plan, senor, for our going to Spain, nor has 
Lela Marien shown me one, though I have asked her. All that can 
be done is for me to give you plenty of money in gold from this 
window. With it ransom yourself and your friends, and let one of 
you go to the land of the Christians, and there buy a vessel and 
come back for the others ; and he will find me in my father’s garden, 
which is at the Babazoun gate * near the sea-shore, where I shall be 
all this summer with my father and my servants. You can carry me 
away from there by night without any danger, and bring me to the 
vessel. And remember thou art to be my husband, else 1 will pray 
to Marien to punish thee. If thou canst not trust any one to go for 
the vessel, ransom thyself and do thou go, for I know thou wilt re- 
turn more surely than any other, as thou art a gentleman and a 
Christian. Endeavor to make thj^self acquainted with the garden ; 
and when I see thee walking yonder I shall know that the bano is 
empty and I will give thee abundance of money. Allah protect thee, 
senor.” 

These were the words and contents of the second paper, and 
on hearing them, each declared himself willing to be the ransomed 
one, and promised to go and return with scrupulous good faith ; and 
I too made the same offer ; but to all this the renegade objected, 
saying that he would not on any account consent to one being set 

^Babazoun, "the gate of grief,” the south gate of Algiers. 


344 


DON QUIXOTE, 


free before all went together, as experience had taught him how ill 
those who have been set free keep promises which they made in 
captivity ; for captives of distinction frequently had recourse to this 
plan, paying the ransom of one who was to go to Valencia or Majorca 
with money to enable him to arm a bark and return for the others 
who had ransomed him ; but who never came back ; for recovered 
liberty and the dread of losing it again efface from the memory all 
the obligations in the world. And to prove the truth of what he said, 
he told us briefly what had happened to a certain Christian gentle- 
man almost at that very time, the strangest case that had ever 
occurred even there, where astonishing and marvellous things are 
happening every instant. In short, he ended by saying that what 
could and ought to be done was to give the money intended for the 
ransom of one of us Christians to him, so that he might with it buy 
a vessel there in Algiers under the pretence of becoming a merchant 
and trading to Tetuan and along the coast ; and when master of 
the vessel, it would be easy for him to hit on someway of getting us 
all out of the bano and putting us on board ; especially if the Moorish 
lady gave, as she said, money enough to ransom all, because once 
free it would be the easiest thing in the world for us to embark even 
in open day ; but the greatest difficulty was that the Moors do not 
allow any renegade to buy or own any craft, unless it be a large 
vessel for going on roving expeditions, because they are afraid that 
any one who buys a small vessel, especially if he be a Spaniard, only 
wants it for the purpose of escaping to Christian territory'. This 
however he could get over by arranging with a Tagarin Moor to go 
shares with him in the purchase of the vessel and in the profit on the 
cargo ; and under cover of this he could become master of the vessel, 
in which case he looked upon all the rest as accomplished. But 
though to me and my comrades it had seemed a better plan to send 
to Majorca for the vessel, as the Moorish lady suggested, we did not 
dare to oppose him, fearing that if we did not do as he said he would 
denounce us, and place us in danger of losing all our lives if he were 
to disclose our dealings with Zoraida, for whose life we would have 
all given our own. We therefore resolved to put ourselves in the 
hands of God and in the renegade’s ; and at the same time an answer 
was given to Zoraida, telling her that we w'ould do all she recom- 
mended, for she had given as good advice as if Lela Marien had 
delivered it, and that it depended on her alone whether we were to 
defer the business or put it in execution at once. I renewed my 
promise to be her husband ; and thus the next day that the bano 
chanced to be empty she at different times gave us by means of the 
reed and cloth two thousand gold crowns and a paper in which she 
said that the next Jum^, that is to say Friday, she was going to her 
father’s garden, but that before she went she would ^ive us more 
money; and if it were not enough we were to let her know, as she 
would give us as much as we asked, for her father had so much he 
would not miss it, and besides she kept all the keys. 

We at once gave the renegade five hundi-ed crowns to buy the 
vessel, and with eight hundred I ransomed myself, giving the money 


CHAPTER XLL 


345 


to a Valencian merchant who happened to be in Algiers at the time, 
and who had me released on his word, pledging it that on the arrival 
of the first ship from Valencia he would pay rav ransom; for if he 
had given the money at once it would have made the king suspect 
that my ransom money had been for a long time in Algiers, and that 
the merchant had for his own advantage kept it secret. In fact my 
master was so difficult to deal with that I dared not on any account 
pay down the money at once. The Thursday before the Friday on 
which the fair Zoraida was to go to the garaen she gave us a thou- 
sand crowns more, and warned us of her departure, begging me, if 
I were ransomed, to find out her father’s garden at once, and by all 
means to seek an opportunity of going there to see her. I answered 
in a few words that I would do so, and that she must remember to 
commend us to Lela Marien with all the prayers the captive had 
taught her. This having been done, steps were taken to ransom our 
three comrades, so as to enable them to quit the bano, and lest, see- 
ing me ransomed and themselves not, though the money was forth- 
coming, they should make a disturbance about it and the devil should 
prompt them to do something that might injure Zoraida; for though 
their position mi^ht be sufficient to relieve me from this appre- 
hension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in the matter; 
and so I had them ransomed in the same way as I was, handing over 
all the money to the merchant so that he might with safety and con- 
fidence give security; without, however, confiding our arrangement 
and secret to him, which might have been dangerous. 


CHAPTER XLL 

IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES. 

Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already pur- 
chased an excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons ; 
and to make the transaction safe and lend a color to it, he thought it 
well to make, as he did, a voyage to a place called Shershel, twenty 
leagues from Algiers on the Oran side, where there is an extensive 
trade in dried figs. Two or three' times he made this vo3"age in com- 
pany with the Tagarin already mentioned. The Moors of Aragon 
are called Tagarins in Barbary, and those of Granada Mudejares ; but 
in the Kingdom of Fez they call the Mud6jares Elches, and they are 
the people the king chiefly employs in war. To proceed : every time 
he passed with his vessel he anchored in a cove that was not two 
cross-bow shots from the garden where Zoraida was w^aiting ; and 
there the renegade, together with the two Moorish lads that rowed, 
used purposely to station himself, either going through his prayers, 
or else practising as a part what he meant to perform in earnest. 
And thus he would go to Zoraida’s garden and ask for fruit, which 
her father gave him, not knowing him ; but though, as he afterwards 


346 


DON QUIXOTE, 


told me, he sought to speak to Zoraida, and tell her who he was, 
and that by niy orders he was to take her to the land of the Christians, 
so that she might feel satisfied and easy, he had never been able to 
do so ; for the Moorish women do not allow themselves to be seen 
b^ any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or fathers bid them : 
vrith Christian eaptives they permit freedom of intercourse 
and communication, even more than might be considered proper. 
But for my part, I should have been sorry if he had spoken to her, 
for perhaps it might have alarmed her to find her affairs talked of by 
renegades. But God, who ordered it otherwise, afforded no opportu- 
nity for our renegade’s well-meant purpose; and he, seeing how 
safely he could go to Shershel and return, and anchor when and how 
and where he liked, and that the Tagarin his partner had no will but 
his, and that, now I was ransomed, all we wanted was to find some 
Christians to row, told me to look out for any I should be willing to 
take with me, over and above those who had been ransomed, and to 
engage them for the next Friday, which he fixed upon for our de- 
parture. On this I spoke to twelve Spaniards, all stout rowers, and 
such as could most easily leave the city ; but it was no easy matter to 
find so many just then, because there were twenty ships out on a 
cruise, and they had taken all the rowers with them ; and these would 
not have been found were it not that their master remained at home 
that summer without going to sea, in order to finish a galliot that he 
had upon the stocks. To these men I said nothing more than that 
the next Friday in the evening^, they were to come out stealthily one 
by one and hang about Hadji Morato’s garden, waiting for me there 
until I came. These directions I gave each one separately, with or- 
ders that if they saw any other Christians there, they were not to say 
anything to them, except that I had directed them to wait at that 
spot. 

This preliminary having been settled, another still more necessary 
step had to be taken, which was to let Zoraida know how matters 
stood that she might be prepared and forewarned, so as not to be 
taken by surprise if we were suddenly to seize upon her before she 
thought the Christians’ vessel could have returned. I determined, 
therefore, to go to the garden and try if I could speak to her ; and 
the day before my departure I went there under the pretence of 
gathering herbs. The first person I met was her father, who ad- 
dressed me in the language that all over Barbary and even in Con- 
stantinople is the medium between captives and Moors, and is neither 
Morisco nor Castilian, nor of any other nation, but a mixture of all 
languages, by means of which we can all understand one another. 
In this sort of language, I say, he asked me what I wanted in his gar- 
den, and to whom I belonged. I replied that I was a slave of the Ar- 
naut Mami* (for I knew as a certainty that he was a very great friend 
of his), and that I wanted some herbs to make a salad. He asked 

* The Arnaut Mami was the captor of the Sol galley on board of which 
Cervantes and his brother Rodrigo were returning to Spain. He was 
noted for his cruelty, and was said to have lus house full of noseless and 
earless Christians. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


847 


me then whether I were on ransom or not, and what my master de- 
manded for me. While these questions and answers were proceed- 
ing, the fair Zoraida, who had already perceived me some time 
before, came out of the house in the garden, and as Moorish wometi 
are by no means particular about letting themselves be seen by Chris- 
tians, or, as I have said before, at all coy, she had no hesitation in 
coming to where her father stood with me ; moreover her father, 
seeing her approaching slowly, called to her to come. It would 
be beyond my power now to describe to you the great beauty, 
the high-bred air, the rich brilliant attire of my beloved Zora- 
ida as she presented herself before my eyes. I will content 
myself with saying that more pearls hung from her fair neck, 
her ears, and her hair than she had hairs on her head. On her ankles, 
which as is customary were bare, she had carcajes (for so bracelets 
or anklets are called in Morisco) of the purest gold, set with so many 
diamonds that she told me afterwards her father valued them at ten 
thousand doubloons, and those she had on her wrists were worth as 
much more. The pearls were in profusion and very fine, for the 
highest display and adornment of the Moorish women is decking 
themselves with rich pearls and seed-pearls ; and of these there ai’e 
therefore more among the Moors than among any other people. 
Zoraida’s father had the reputation of possessing a great number, 
and the purest in all Algiers, and of possessing also more than two 
hundred thousand Spanish crowns ; and she, who is now mistress of 
me only, was mistress of all this. Whether thus adorned she would 
have been beautiful or not, and what she must have been in her 
prosperity, may be imagined from the beauty remaining to her 
after so many hardships ; for, as every one knows, the beauty of some 
women has its times and its seasons, and is increased or diminished by 
chance causes ; and naturally the emotions of the mind will heighten 
or impair it, though indeed more frequently they totally destroy it. 
In a word she presented herself before me that day attired with the 
utmost splendor, and supremely beautiful ; at any rate, she seemed 
to me the most beautiful object I had ever seen ; and when, besides, 
1 thought of all I owed to her I felt as though I had before me some 
heavenly being come to earth to bring me relief and happiness. 

As she approached, her father told her in his own language that 
I was a captive belonging to his friend the Arnaut Mami, and that I 
had come for salad. 

She took up the conversation, and in that mixture of tongues I have 
spoken of she asked me if I was a gentleman, and why I was not 
ransomed. 

I answered that I was already ransomed, and that by the price it 
might be seen what value my master set on me, as they had given 
one thousand five hundred zoltanis ‘ for me ; to which she replied, 
“ Iladst thou been my father’s, I can tell thee, I would not have let 
him part with thee for twice as much, for you Christians always tell 
lies about yourselves and make yourselves out poor to cheat the 
Moors.” 

* An Algerine coin equal to about thirty-six reals. 


348 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ That may be, lady,” said I ; “ but indeed I dealt truthfully with 
my master, as I do and mean to do with everybody in the world.” 

And when dost thou go ?” said Zoraida. 

“To-morrow, I think,” said I, “for there is a vessel herefrom 
France which sails to-morrow, and I think I shall go in her.” 

“ Would it not be better,” said Zoraida, “to wait for the arrival of 
ships fn)m Spain and go with them, and not with the French who are 
not your friends ? ” 

“ No,” said I ; “ though if there were intelligence that a vessel were 
now coming from Spain it is true I might, perhaps, wait for it ; how- 
ever, it is more likely I shall depart to- morrow, for the longing I feel 
to return to my country and to those I love is so great that it will not 
allow me to wait for another opportunity, however more convenient, 
if it be delayed.” 

“ No doubt thou art married in thine own country,” said Zoraida, 
“ and for that reason thou art anxious to go and see thy wife.” 

“ I am not married,” I replied, “ but 1 have given my promise to 
marry on my arrival there.” 

“And is the lady beautiful to whom thou hast given it?” said 
Zoraida. 

“So beautiful,” said I, “that, to describe her worthily and tell 
thee the truth, she is very like thee.” 

At this her father laughed A^ery heartily and said, “ By Allah, Chris- 
tian, she must be very beautiful if she is like my daughter, who is 
the most beautiful woman in all this kingdom : only look at her well 
and thou wilt see I am telling the truth.” 

Zoraida’s father as the better linguist helped to interpret most of 
these words and phrases, for though she spoke the bastard language, 
that, as I have said, is employed there, she expressed her meaning 
more by signs than by Avords. 

While we were still engaged in this conversation, a Moor came 
running up, exclaiming that four Turks had leaped over the fence or 
wall of the garden, and were gathering the fruit, though it was not 
yet ripe. The old man was alarmed and Zoraida too, for the Moors 
commonly, and, so to speak, instinctively have a dread of the Turks, 
but particularly of the soldiers, who are so insolent and domineering 
to the Moors who are under their power that they treat them worse 
than if they were their slaves. So her father said to Zoraida, 
“Daughter, retire into the house and shut thyself in while I go and 
speak to these dogs; and thou, Christian, pick thy herbs, and go in 
peace, and Allah bring thee safe to thy own country.” 

I boAved, and he Avent aAvay to look for the Turks, leaving me 
alone with Zoraida, who made as if she AA’^ere about to retire as her 
father bade her ; but the moment he was con'cealed by the trees of 
the garden, turning to me with her eyes full of tears she said, 
“Tameji, crisliano, tameji? ” that is to say, “Art thou going, Chris- 
tian, art thou going ? ” 

I made answer, “Yes, lady, but not without thee, come what may ; 
be on the Avatch for me on the next Jumd, and be not alarmed when 
thou seest us ; for most surely we shall go to the land of the Chris- 
tians.” 


CHAPTER X£L 


849 


This I said in such a way that she understood perfectly all that 
passed between us, and throwing her arm round my neck she began 
with feeble steps to move towards the house ; but as fate would have 
it (and it might have been very unfortunate if Heaven had not other- 
wise ordered it), just as we were moving on in the manner and posi- 
tion I have described, with her arm round my neck, her father, as he 
returned after having sent away the Turks, saw how we were walk- 
ing and we perceived that he saw us ; but Zoraida, ready and quick- 
witted, took care not to remove her arm from my neck, but on the 
contrary drew closer to me and laid her head on my breast, bending 
her knees a little and showing all tlie signs and tokens of fainting, 
while I at the same time made it seem as though I were supporting 
her against my will. Her father came running up to where we 
were, and seeing liis daughter in this state asked what was the mat- 
ter with her; she, however, giving no answer, he said, “ No doubt 
she has fainted in alarm at the entrance of those dogs,” and taking 
her from mine he drew her to his own breast, while she sighing, her 
eyes still wet with tears, said again, “ Ameji, cristiano, ameji ” — 
“ Go, Christian, go.” To this her father replied, “There is no need, 
daughter, for the Christian to go, for he has done thee no harm, and 
the Turks have now gone ; feel no alarm, there is nothing to hurt 
thee, for as I sa}^ the Turks at my request have gone back the way 
they came.” 

“ It was they who terrified her, as thou hast said, senor,” said I to 
her father ; “ but since she tells me to go, I have no wish to displease 
her : peace be with thee, and with thy leave I will come back to this 
garden for herbs if need be, for my master says there are nowhere 
better herbs for salad than here.” 

“Come back for any thou hast need of,” replied Hadji Morato ; 
“ for my daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased with 
thee or any Christian : she only meant that the Turks should go, not 
thou ; or that it was time for thee to look for thy herbs.” 

With this I at once took my leave of both ; and she, looking as 
though her heart were breaking, retired with her father. While 
pretending to look for herbs I made the round of the garden at my 
ease, and studied carefully all the approaches *and outlets, and the 
fastenings of the house and everything that could be taken advan- 
tage of to make our task easy. Having done so 1 went and gave an 
account of all that had taken place to the renegade and my comrades, 
and looked forward with impatience to the hour when, all fear at an 
end, I should find myself in possession of the prize which fortune 
held out to me in the fair and lovely Zoraida. The time passed at 
length, and the appointed day we so longed for arrived; and, all 
following out the arrangement and plan which, after careful con- 
sideration and many a long discussion, we had decided upon, we 
succeeded as fully as we could have wished; for on the Friday fol- 
lowing the day upon which I spoke to Zoraida in the garden, the 
renegade anchored his vessel at nightfall almost opposite the spot 
where she was. The Christians who were to row were ready and in 
hiding in different places round about, all waiting for me, anxious 


350 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and elated, and eager to attack the vessel they had before their eyes ; 
for they did not know the renegade’s plan, but expected that they 
were to gain their liberty by force of arms and by killing the Moors 
who were on board the vessel. As soon, then, as I and my comrades 
made our appearance, all those that were in hiding seeing us came 
and joined us. It was now the time when the city gates are shut, 
and there was no one to be seen in all the space outside. When we 
were collected together we debated whether it would be better first 
to go for Zoraida, or to make prisoners of the Moorish rowers who 
rowed in the vessel ; but while we were still uncertain our renegade 
came up asking us what kept us, as it was now the time, and all 
the Moors were off their guard and most of them asleep. We told 
him why we hesitated, but he said it was of more importance first to 
secure the vessel, wdiich could be done with the greatest ease and 
without any danger, and then we could go for Zoraida. AVe all 
approved of what he said, and so without further delay, guided by 
him we made for the vessel, and he leaping on board first, drew his 
cutlass and said in Morisco, “Let no one stir from this if he does 
not w^ant it to cost him life.” By this almost all the Christians w’ere 
on board, and the Moors, who were faint-hearted, hearing their 
captain speak in this way, were cowed, and without any one of 
them taking to his arms (and indeed they had few or hardly any) 
they submitted without saying a word to be bound by the Christians, 
who quickly secured them, threatening them that if they raised any 
kind of outciy they would be all put to the sword. This having been 
accomplished, ana half of our party being left to keep guard over 
them, the rest of us, again taking the renegade as our guide, hastened 
towards Hadji Morato’s garden, and as good luck would have it, 
on trying the gate it opened as readily as if it had not been locked ; 
and so, quite quietly and in silence, we reached the house without 
being perceived by anybody. The lovely Zoraida was w^atching for 
us at a window, and as soon as she perceived that there were people 
there, she asked in a low voice if we were “ Nizarani,” as much as 
to say or ask if we were Christians. I answered that we were, and 
begged her to cbme down. As soon as she recognized me she did 
not delay an instant,*but without answering a word came down im- 
mediately, opened the door and presented herself before us all, so 
beautiful and so richly attired that I cannot attempt to describe her. 
The moment I saw her 1 took her hand and kissed it, and the rene- 
gade and my two comrades did the same ; and the rest, who knew 
nothing of the circumstances, did as they saw us do, for it only 
seemed as if we were returning thanks to her, and recognizing her 
as the giver of our liberty. The renegade asked her in the Morisco 
language if her father was in the house. She replied that he was 
and that he was asleep. 

“Then it will be necessary to waken him and take him with us,” 
said the renegade, “ and everything of value in this fair mansion.” 

“ Nay,” said she, “ my father must not on any account be touched, 
and there is nothing in the house except what I shall take, and that 
will be quite enough to enrich and satisfy all of you ; wait a little and 


CHAPTER XLI. 


351 


you shall see,” and so sayirijr she went in again, telling us she would 
return immediately, and bidding us keep quiet without making any 
noise. 

I asked the renegade what had passed between them, and when he 
told me, 1 declared that nothing should be done except in accordance 
with the wishes of Zoraida, who now came back with a little trunk 
so full of gold crowns that she could scarcely carry it. Unfortu- 
nately her father awoke while this was going on, and hearing a noise 
in tlie garden, came to the window, and at once perceiving that all 
those who were there were Christians, raising a prodigiously loud 
outcry, he began to call out in Arabic, “Christians, Christians! 
thieves, thieves ! ” by which cries we were all thrown into the greatest 
fear and embarrassment ; but the renegade seeing the danger we 
were in and how important it was for him to effect his purpose before 
we were heard, mounted with the utmost quickness to where Hadji 
Morato was, and with him went some of our party ; I, however, did 
not dare to leave Zoraida, who had fallen almost fainting in my arms. 
To be brief, those who had gone upstairs acted so promptly that in 
an instant they came down, carrying Hadji Morato with his hands 
bound and a napkin lied over his mouth, which prevented him from 
uttering a word, warning him at the same time that to attempt to 
speak would cost him his life. When his daughter caught sight of 
him she covered her eyes so as not to see him, and her father was 
horror-stricken, not knowing how willingly she had placed herself in 
our hands. But it was now most essential for us to be on the move, 
and carefully and quickly we regained the vessel, where those who 
had remained on board were waiting for us in apprehension of some 
mishap having befallen us. It was barely two hours after night set 
in when we were all on board the vessel, where the cords were re- 
moved from the hands of Zoraida’s father, and the napkin from his 
mouth ; but the renegade once more told him not to utter a word, or 
they would take his life. He, when he saw his daughter there, began 
to sigh piteously, and still more when he perceived that I held her 
closely embraced and that she lay quiet without resisting or com- 
plaining, or showing any reluctance ; nevertheless he remained silent 
lest they should carry into effect the repeated threats the renegade 
had addressed to him. 

Finding herself now on board, and that we were about to give way 
with the oars, Zoraida, seeing her father there, and the other Moors 
bound, bade the renegade ask me to do her the favor of releasing 
the Moors and setting her father at liberty, for she would rather 
drown herself in the sea than suffer a father that had loved her so 
dearly to be carried away captive before her eyes and on her account. 

The renegade repeated this to me, and I replied that I was very 
willing to do so ; but he replied that it was not advisable, because if 
they were left there they would at once raise the country and stir up 
the city, and lead to the despatch of swift cruisers in pursuit, and our 
being taken, by sea or land, without any possibility of escape ; and 
that all that could be done was to set them free on the first Christian 
ground we reached. On this point we all agreed ; and Zoraida, to 


352 


DON QUIXOTE. 


whom it was explained, together with the reasons that prevented us 
from doing at once what she desired, was satislied likewise ; and then 
in glad silence and with cheerful alacrity each of our stout rowers 
took his oar, and commending ourselves to God with all our hearts, 
we began to shape our course for the island of Majorca, the nearest 
Christian land. Owing, however, to the Tramontana * rising a little, 
and the sea growing somewhat rough, it was impossible for us to 
keep a straight course for Majorca, and we were compelled to coast 
in the direction of Oran, not without great uneasiness on our part 
lest we should be observed from the town of Shershel, which lies on 
that coast, not more than sixty miles from Algiers. Moreover we 
were afraid of meeting on that course one of the galliots that usually 
come with goods from Tetuan ; although each of us for himself and 
all of us together felt confident that, if we were to meet a merchant 
galliot, so that it were not a cruiser, not only should we not be lost, 
but that we should take a vessel in which we could more safely ac- 
complish our voyage. As we pursued our course Zoraida kept her 
head between my hands so as not to see her father, and 1 felt sure 
that she was praying to Lela Marien to help us. 

We might have made about thirty miles when daybreak found us 
some three musket-shots off the land, which seemed to us deserted, 
and without any one to see us. For all that, however, by hard row- 
ing we put out a little to sea, for it was now somewhat calmer, and 
having gained about two leagues the word was given to row by 
batches, while we ate something, for the vessel was well provided ; 
but the rowers said it was not a time to take any rest ; let food be 
served out to those who were not rowing, but they w^oul d not 1 eave their 
oars on any account. This was done, but now a stiff breeze began 
to blow, wiiich obliged us to leave off rowing and make sail at once 
and steer for Oran, as it was impossible to make any other course. 
All this was done very promptly, and under sail w'e ran more than 
eight miles an hour without any fear, except that of coming across 
some vessel out on a roving expedition. We gave the Moorish 
rowers some food, and the renegade comforted them by telling them 
that they were not held as captives, as we should set them free on the 
first opportunity. 

The same was said to Zoraida’s father, wiio replied, “Anything 
else, O Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generos- 
ity and good behavior, but do not think me so simple as to imagine 
you will give me my liberty; for you would have never exposed 
yourselves to the danger of depriving me of it only to restore it to 
me so generously, especially as you know who I am and the sum 
you may expect to receive on restoring it; and if you will only 
name that, I here offer you all you require for myself and for my 
unhappy daughter there ; or else for her alone, for she is the great- 
est and most precious part of my soul.” 

As he said this he began to weep so bitterly that he filled us all 
with compassion and forced Zoraida to look at him, and when she 
saw him weeping she was so moved that she rose from my feet and 

* A wind from the north, so called from coming across the Alps. 


CHAPTER XLi. 


355 


ran to throw her arras round hira, and pressing her face to his, they 
both gave way to such an outburst of tears that several of us were 
constrained to keep them company. 

But when her father saw her in full dress and with all her jewels 
about her, he said to her in his own language, “ What means this, 
ray daughter ? Last night, before this terrible misfortune in which 
we are plunged befell us, I saw thee in thy every-day and indoor 
garments ; and now, without having had time to attire thyself, and 
without my bringing thee any joyful tidings to furnish an occasion 
for adorning and bedecking thyself, I see thee arrayed in the finest 
attire it would be in my power to give thee when fortune was most 
kind to us. Answer me this; for it causes me greater anxiety and 
surprise than even this misfortune itself.” 

The renegade interpreted to us what the Moor said to his 
daughter; she, however, returned him no answer. But when he 
observed in one corner of the vessel the little trunk in which she 
used to keep her jewels, which he well knew he had left in Algiers 
and had not brought to the garden, he was still more amazed, and 
asked her how that trunk had come into our hands, and what there 
was in it. To which the renegade, without waiting for Zoraida to 
reply, made answer, “ Do not trouble thyself by asking thy daughter 
Zoraida so many questions, senor, for the one answer I will give 
thee will serve for all ; I would have thee know that she is a Chris- 
tian, and that it is she who has been the file for our chains and our 
deliverer from captivity. She is here of her own free will, as glad, 
I imagine, to find herself in this position as he who escapes from 
darkness into the light, from death to life, and from suffering to 
glory.” ' 

“ Daughter, is this true, what he says? ” cried the Moor. 

“ It is,” replied Zoraida. 

That thou art in truth a Christian,” said the old man, “ and that 
thou hast given thy father into the power of his enemies ? ” 

To which Zoraida made answer, “ A Christian I am, but it is not 
I who have placed thee in this position, for it never was my wish to 
leave thee or do tKee harm, but only to do good to myself.” 

“ And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter ? ” said he. 

“ Ask thou that,” said she, “ of Lela Marien, for she can tell thee 
better than I.” 

The Moor had hardly heard these words when with marvellous 
quickness he flung himself head-foremost into the sea, where no 
doubt he would have been drowned had not the long and full dress 
he wore held him up for a little on the surface of the water. Zoraida 
cried aloud to us to save him, and we all hastened to help, and seiz- 
ing him by his robe we drew him in half-drowned and insensible, at 
which Zoraida was in such distress that she wept over him as pite- 
ously and bitterly as though he were already dead. We turned him 
upon his face and he voided a great quantity of water, and at the end 
of two hours came to himself. Meanwhile, the wind having changed 
we were compelled to head for the land, and ply our oars to avoid 
being driven on shore ; but it was our good fortune to make a cove 
VoL. I. — 23 


354 DON QUIXOTE, 

\ 

that lies on one side of a small promontory or cape, called by the 
Moors that of the “ Cava rumia,” which in our language means “ the 
wicked Christian woman ; ” for it is a tradition among them that La 
Cava, through whom Spain was lost, lies buried at that spot ; “ cava ” 
in their language meaning “ wicked woman,” and “ rumia” “ Chris- 
tian ; ” ^ moreover, they count it unlucky to anchor there when neces- 
sity compels them, andf they never do so otherwise. For us, however, 
it was not the resting-place of the wicked woman but a haven of 
safety for our relief, so much had the sea now got up. We posted a 
look-out on shore, and never let the oars out of our hands, and ate 
of the stores the renegade had laid in, imploring (iod and Our Lady 
with all our hearts to help and protect us, that we might give a happy 
ending to a beginning so prosperous. At the entreaty of Zoraida 
orders were given to set on shore her father and the other Moors who 
were still bound, for she could not endure, nor could her tender 
heart bear to see her father in bonds and her fellow-countrymen pris- 
oners before her eyes. We promised her to do this at the moment 
of departure, for as it was uninhabited we ran no risk in releasing 
them at that place. 

Our prayers were not so far in vain as to be unheard by Heaven, 
for the wind immediately changed in our favor, and the sea grew 
calm, inviting us once more to resume our voyage with a good'heart. 
Seeing this we unbound the Moors, and one by one put them on 
shore, at which they were filled with amazement; but when we came 
to landZoraida’s father, who had now completely recovered his senses, 
he said, “ Why is it, think ye, Christians, that this wicked woman is 
rejoiced at your giving me my liberty ? Think ye it is because of 
the affection she bears me? Nay verily, it is only because of the 
hindrance my presence offers to the execution of her base designs. 
And think not that it is her belief that yours is better than ours that 
has led her to change her religion ; it is only because she knows that 
immodesty is more freely practised in your country than in ours.” 
Then turning to Zoraida, while I and another of the Christians held 
him fast by both arms, lest he should do some mad act, he said to 
her, “Infamous girl, misguided maiden, whither in thy blindness 
and madness art thou going in the hands of these dogs, our natural 
enemies? Cursed be the hour when I begot thee! Cursed the lux- 
ury and indulgence in which I reared thee ! ” But seeing that he 
was not likely soon to cease I made haste to put him on shore, and 
thence he continued his maledictions and lamentations aloud ; calling 
on Mohammed to pray to Allah to destroy us, to confound us, to 
make an end of us ; and when, in consequence of having made sail, 
we could no longer hear what he said we could see what he did ; how 
he plucked out his beard and tore his hair and lay writhing on the 
ground. But once he raised his voice to such a pitch that we were 
able to hear what he said. “ Come back, dear daughter, come back 

' Cervantes gives the popular name by which the spot is known. Prop- 
erly it is " Kubba Rumia,” the Christian’s tomb ; ” that being the name 
given to the curious circular structure about which there has been so much 
discussion among French archaeologists. 


CHAPTER XLL 


355 


to shore ; I forgive thee all ; let those men have the money, for it is 
theirs now, and come back to comfort thy sorrowing father, who will 
yield up his life on this barren strand if thou dost leave him.” 

Ail this Zoraida heard, and heard with sorrow and tears, and all 
sue could say in answer was, “ Allah grant that Lela Marien, who 
has made me become a Christian, give thee comfort in thy sorrow, 
(J my father. Allah knows that I could not do otherwise than I have 
done, and that these Christians owe nothing to my will ; for even had 
I wished not to accompany them, but remain at home, it would have 
been impossible for me, so eagerly did my soul urge me on to the 
accomplishment of this purpose, which I feel to be as righteous as to 
thee, dear father, it seems wicked.” 

But neither could her father hear her nor we see him when she 
said this ; and so, while I consoled Zoraida, we turned our attention 
to our voyage, in which a breeze from the right point so favored us 
that we made sure of finding ourselves otf the coast of Spain on the 
morrow by daybreak. But, as good seldom or never comes pure 
and un mixed, without being attended or followed by some disturb- 
ing evil that gives a shock to it, our fortune, or perhaps the curses 
which the Moor had hurled at his daughter (for whatever kind of 
father they may come from these are always to be dreaded), brought 
it about that when we were now in mid-sea, and the night about 
three hours spent, as we were running with all sail set and oars 
lashed, for the favoring breeze saved us the trouble of using them, 
we saw by the light of the moon, which shone brilliantly, a square- 
rigged vessel in full sail close to us, luffing up and standing across 
our course, and so close that we had to strike sail to avoid running 
foul of her, while they too put the helm hard up to let us pass. 
They came to the side of the ship to ask who we were, whither we 
were bound, and whence we came, but as they asked this in French 
out renegade said, “ Let no one answer, for no doubt these are 
French corsairs who plunder all comers.” Acting on this warning 
no one answered a word, but after we had gone a little ahead, and 
the vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they fired two guns, 
and apparently both loaded with chainshot, for with one they cut our 
mast in half and brought down both it and the sail into the sea, and 
the other, discharged at the same moment, sent a ball into our vessel 
amidships, staving her in completely, but without doing any further 
damage. We, however, finding ourselves sinking began to shout 
for h^lp and call upon those in the ship to pick us up as we were 
beginning to fill. They then lay to, and lowering a skiff or boat, as 
m^ny as a dozen Frenchmen, well armed with matchlocks, and their 
matches burning, got into it and came alongside ; and seeing how 
few we were, and that our vessel was going down, they took us in, 
telling us that this had come to us through our incivility in not giving 
them*an answer. Our renegade took the trunk containing Zoraida’s 
wealth and dropped it into the sea without any one perceiving what 
he did. In short we went on board with the Frenchmen, who, after 
having ascertained all they wanted to know about us, rifled us of 
everything we had, as if they had been our bitterest enemies, and 


856 


DON QUIXOTE. 


from Zoraida they took even the anklets she wore on her feet ; but 
the distress they caused her did not distress me so much as the fear 
I was in that from robbing her of her rich and precious jewels they 
would proceed to rob her of the most precious jewel that she valued 
more than all. The desires, however, of those people do not go 
beyond money, but of that their covetousness is insatiable, and on 
this occasion it was carried to such a pitch that they would have 
taken even the clothes we wore as captives if they had been worth 
anything to them. It was the advice of some of them to throw us 
all into the sea wrapped up in a sail ; for their purpose was to trade 
at some of the ports of Spain, giving themselves out as Bretons, 
and if they brought us alive they would be punished as soon as the 
robbery was discovered ; but the captain (who was the one who had 

E hindered my beloved Zoraida) said he was satisfied with the prize 
e had got, and that he would not touch at any Spanish port, but 
])ass the Straits of Gibraltar by night, or as best he could, and make 
for Rochelle, from which he had sailed. So they agreed by common 
consent to give us the skiff belonging to their ship and all we re- 
quired for the short voyage that remained to us, and this they did 
the next day on coming in sight of the Spanish coast, with which, 
and the joy we felt, all our sufferings and miseries were as com- 
pletely forgotten as if they had never been endured by us, such is 
the delight of recovering lost liberty. 

It may have been about mid-day when they placed us in the boat, 
giving us two kegs of water and some biscuit; and the captain, 
moved by I know not what compassion, as the lovely Zoraida was 
about to embark gave her some forty gold crowns, and would not 
permit his men to take from her those same garments which she has 
on now. We got into the boat, returning them thanks for their 
kindness to us, and showing ourselves grateful rather than indig- 
nant. They stood out to sea, steering for the straits ; we, without 
looking to any compass save the land we had before us, set our- 
selves to row with such energy that by sunset we were so near that 
we might easily, we thought, land before the night was far ad- 
vanced. But as the moon did not show that night, and the sky was 
clouded, and as we knew not whereabouts we were, it did not seem 
to us a prudent thing to make for the shore, as several of us advised, 
saying we ought to run ourselves ashore even if it were on rocks 
and far from any habitation, for in this way we should be relieved 
from the apprehensions we naturally felt of the prowling vessels of 
the Tetuan corsairs, who leave Barbary at nightfall and are on the 
Spanish coast by daybreak, where they commonly take some prize, 
and then go home to sleep in their own houses. But of the conflict- 
ing counsels the one which was adopted was that we should ap- 
proach gradually, and land where we could if the sea were calm 
enough to permit us. This was done, and a little before midnight 
we drew near to the foot of a huge and lofty mountain,^ not so close 
to the sea but that it left a narrow space on which to land conven- 

' The Sierra Tejeda, to the south of Alhama, is apparently that which 
Cervantes means. 


CHAPTER XLL 


357 


iently. We ran our boat up on the sand, and all sprang out and 
kissed the ground, and with tears of joyful satisfaction returned 
thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable goodness to us on our 
voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it contained, and drew 
it up on the shore, and then climbed a long way up the mountain, for 
even there we could not feel easy in our hearts, or thoroughly per- 
suade ouselves that it was Christian soil that was now under our 
feet. 

The dawn came, more slowly, I think, than we could have wished ; 
we completed the ascent in order to see if from the summit any habi- 
tation or any shepherd’s huts could be discovered, but strain our eyes 
as we might, neither dwelling, nor human being, nor path nor road 
could we perceive. However, we determined to push on farther, as 
it could not but be that ere long we must see some one who could 
tell us where we were. But what distressed me most was to see Zo- 
raida going on foot over that rough ground ; for though I once car- 
ried her on my shoulders, she was more wearied by my weariness 
than rested by the rest; and so she would never again allow me to 
undergo the exertion, and went on very patiently and cheerfully, 
while 1 led her by the hand. We had gone rather less than a quarter 
of a league when the sound of a little bell fell on our ears, a clear 
proof that there were flocks hard by, and looking about carefully to 
see if any were within view, we observed a young shepherd tran- 
quilly and unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his knife, at the foot 
of a corktree. We called to him, and he, raising his head, sprang 
nimbly to his feet, for, as we afterwards learned, the first who pre- 
sented. themselves to his sight were the renegade and Zoraida, and 
seeing them in Moorish dress he imagined that all the Moors of Bar- 
bary were upon him; and plunging with marvellous swiftness into 
the thicket in front of him, he began to raise a prodigious outcry, ex- 
claiming, “The Moors — the Moors have landed!” We were all 
thrown into perplexity by these cries, not knowing what to do; but 
reflecting that the shouts of the shepherd would raise the country 
and that the mounted coast-guard would come at once to see what 
was the matter, we agreed that the renegade must strip off his Turk- 
ish garments and put on a captive’s jacket or coat, which one of our 
party gave him at once, though he himself was reduced to his shirt; 
and so commending ourselves to God, we followed the same road 
which we saw the shepherd take, expecting every moment that the 
coast-guard would be down upon us. Nor did our expectation de- 
ceive us, for two hours had not passed when, coming out of the brush- 
wood into the open ground, we perceived some fifty mounted men 
swiftly approaching us at a hand-gallop. As soon as we saw them we 
stood still, waiting for them ; but as they came close and, instead of the 
Moors they were in quest of, saw a set of poor Christians, they were 
taken aback, and one of them asked if it could be we who were the 
cause of the shepherd having raised the call to arms. I said yes, and 
as I was about to explain to him what had occurred, and whence we 
came and who we were, one of the Christians of our party recog- 
nized the horseman who had put the question to us, and before I 


358 


DON QUIXOTE. 


‘.•ould say anything more he exclaimed, “ Thanks be to God, sirs, fot 
bringing us to such good quarters ; for, if I do not deceive myself, 
the ground we stand on is that of Velez Malaga; * unless, indeed, all 
my years of captivity have made me unable to recollect that you, 
senor, who ask who we are, are Pedro de Bustamente, my uncle.” 

The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the 
horseman threw himself otf his horse, and ran to embrace the young 
man, crying, “ Nephew of my soul and life ! I recognize thee now ; 
and long have I mourned thee as dead, I, and my sister, thy mother, 
and all thy kin that are still alive, and whom God has been pleased 
to preserve that they may enjoy the happiness of seeing thee. We 
knew long since that thou wert in Algiers, and from the appearance 
of thy garments and those of all this company, I conclude that ye 
have had a miraculous restoration to liberty.” 

“ It is true,” replied the young man, “ and by-and-by we will tell 
you all.” 

As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian cap- 
tives, they dismounted from their horses, and each offered his to 
carry us to the city of Velez Malaga, which was a league and a half 
distant. Some of them W'ent to bring the boat to the city, we having 
told them where we had left it; others took us up behind them, and 
Zoraida was placed on the horse of the young man’s uncle. The 
whole town came out to meet us, for they had by this time heard of 
our arrival from one who had gone on in advance. They were not 
astonished to see liberated captives or Moorish captives, for people 
on that coast are well used to see both one and the other ; but they 
were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, which was just then height- 
ened, as well by the exertion of travelling as by joy at finding herself 
on Christian soil, and relieved of all fear of being lost; for this had 
brought such a glow upon her face, that, unless my affection for her 
were deceiving me, I would venture to say that there was not a more 
beautiful creature in the w'orld — at least, that I had ever seen. 

We went straight to the church to return thanks to God for the 
mercies we had received, and when Zoraida entered it she said there 
were faces there like Lela Marien’s. We told her they were her 
images ; and as well as he could the renegade explained to her what 
they meant, that she might adore them as if each of them were the 
very same Lela Marien that had spoken to her ; and she, having great 
intelligence and a quick and clear instinct, understood at once all he 
said to her about them. Thence they took us away and distributed 
us all in different houses in the town ; but as for the renegade, Zoraida, 
and myself, the Christian who came with us brought us to the house of 
his parents, who had a fair share of the gifts of fortune, and treated 
us with as much kindness as they did their own son. 

We remained six days in Velez, at the end of which the renegade, 
having informed himself of all that was requisite for him to do, 
set out for the city of Granada to restore himself to the sacred bosom 
of the Church through the medium of the Holy Inquisition. The other 

^ About eighteen miles to the east of Malaga, at a little distance from 
the coast. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


359 


released captives took their departures, each the way that seemed 
best to him, and Zoraida and 1 were left alone, with nothing more 
than the crowns which the courtesy of the Frenchman had bestowed 
upon Zoraida, out of which I bought the beast on which she rides ; 
and, I for the present attending her as her father and squire and not 
as her husband, we are now going to ascertain if my father is li\ ing, 
or if any of my brothers has had better fortune than mine has been ; 
though as Heaven has made me the companion of Zoraida, I think 
no oSier lot could be assigned to me, however happy, that I would 
rather have. The patience with which she endures the hardships 
that poverty brings with it, and the eagerness she shows to become a 
Christian, are such that they till me with admiration, and bind me to 
serve her all my life ; though the happiness I feel in seeing myself 
hers, and her mine, is disturbed and marred by not knowing whether 
I shall find any corner to shelter her in my own country, or whether 
time and death may not have made such changes in the fortunes and 
lives of my father and brothers, that I shall hardly find any one who 
knows me, if they are not to be found. 

I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen ; whether it be 
an interesting or a curious one let your better judgments decide ; all 
I can say is I would gladly have told it to you more briefly ; although 
my fear of wearying you has made me leave out more than one cir- 
cumstance. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, 
AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING. 

With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fer- 
nando said to him, “ In truth, captain, the manner in which you 
have related this remarkable adventure has been such as befitted 
the novelty and strangeness of the matter. The whole story is 
curious and uncommon, and abounds with incidents that fill the 
hearers with wonder and astonishment; and so great is the 
pleasure we have found in listening to it that we should be 
glad if it were to begin again, even though to-morrow were to 
find us still occupied with the same tale.’’ And while he said 
this Cardenio and the rest of them offered to be of service to 
him in any way that lay in their power, and in words and lan- 
guage so kindly and sincere that the captain was much grati- 
fied by their good-will. In particular Don Fernando offered, if 
he would go back with him, to get his brother the marquis to 
become godfather at the baptism of Zoraida, and on his own 
part to provide him with the means of making his appearance 


360 


DON QUIXOTE, 


in his own country with the credit and comfort he was entitled 
to. For all this the captive returned thanks very courteously, 
but would not accept any of their generous offers. 

By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to 
the inn a coach attended by some men on horseback, who de- 
manded accommodation ; to which the landlady replied that 
there was not a hand’s breadth of the whole inn unoccupied. 

Still, for all that,” said one of those who had entered on 
horseback, ^‘room must be found for his lordship the judge 
here.” 

At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, Senor, 
the fact is I have no beds ; but if his lordship the judge carries 
one with him, as no doubt he does, let him come in and wel- 
come ; for my husband and I will give up our room to accom- 
modate his worship.” 

“ Very good, so be it,” said the squire ; but in the mean- 
time a man had got out of the coach whose dress indicated at 
a glance the office and post he held, for the long robe with 
ruffied sleeves that he wore showed that he was, as his servant 
said, a judge of appeal. He led by the hand a young girl in a 
travelling dress, apparently about sixteen years of age, and of 
such a high-bred air, so beautiful and so graceful, that all were 
filled with admiration when she made her appearance, and but 
for having seen Dorothea, Luscinda, and Zoraida, who were 
there in the inn, they would have fancied that a beauty like 
that of this maiden’s would have been hard to find. Don 
Quixote was present at the entrance of the judge with the 
young lady, and as soon as he saw him he said, Your worship 
may with confidence enter and take your ease in this castle ; 
for though the accommodation be scanty and poor, there are no 
quarters so cramped or inconvenient that they can not make 
room for arms and letters ; above all if arms and letters have 
beauty for a guide and leader, as letters represented by your 
worship have in this fair maiden, to whom not only ought 
castles to throw themselves open and yield themselves up, but 
rocks should rend themselves asunder and mountains divide 
and bow themselves down to give her a reception. Enter, 
your worship, I say, into this paradise, for here you will find 
stars and suns to accompany the heaven your worship brings 
with you ; here you will find arms in their supreme excellence, 
and beauty in its highest perfection.” 

The judge was struck with amazement at the language of 


CHAPTER XLIL 


361 


Don Quixote, whom he scrutinized very carefully, no less aS’ 
tonished by his figure than by his talk ; and before he could 
find words to answer him he had a fresh surprise, when he saw 
opposite to him Luscinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida, who, having 
heard of the new guests and of the beauty of the young lady, 
had come to see her and welcome her ; Don Fernando, Cardenio, 
and the curate, however, greeted him in a more intelligible and 
polished style. In short, the judge made his entrance in a 
state of bewilderment, as well with what he saw as what he 
heard, and the fair ladies of the inn gave the fair damsel a 
cordial welcome. On the whole he could perceive that all who 
were there were people of quality ; but with the figure, coun- 
tenance, and bearing of Don Quixote he was at his wits’ end ; 
and all civilities having been exchanged, and the accommoda- 
tion of the inn inquired into, it was settled, as it had been 
before settled, that all the women should retire to the garret 
that has been already mentioned, and that the men should 
remain outside as if to guard them ; the judge, therefore, was 
very well pleased to allow his daughter, for such the damsel 
was, to go with the ladies, which she did very willingly ; and 
with part of the host’s narrow bed and half of what the judge 
had brought with him they made a more comfortable arrange- 
ment for the night than they had expected. 

The captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant 
he saw the judge, telling him somehow that this was his 
brother, asked one of the servants who accompanied him what 
his name was, and whether he knew from what part of the 
country he came. The servants replied that he was called the 
Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard it 
said he came from a village in the mountains of Leon. From 
this statement, and what he himself had seen, he felt con- 
vinced that this was his brother who had adopted letters by 
his father’s advice ; and excited and rejoiced, he called Don 
Fernando and Cardenio and the curate aside, and told them 
how the matter stood, assuring them that the judge was his 
brother. The servant had further informed him that he was 
now going to the Indies with the appointment of judge of the 
Supreme Court of Mexico ; and he had learned, likewise, that 
the young lady was his daughter, whose mother had died in 
giving birth to her, and that he was very rich in consequence 
of the dowry left to him with the daughter. He asked their 
advice as to what means he should adopt to make himself 


362 


DON QUIXOTE. 


known, or to ascertain beforehand whether, when he had made 
himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be 
ashamed of him, or would receive him with a warm heart. 

Leave it to me to find out that,” said the curate ; though 
there is no reason for supposing, captain, that you will not be 
kindly received, because the worth and wisdom that your 
brother’s bearing shows him to possess do not make it likely 
that he will prove haughty or insensible, or that he will not 
know how to estimate the accidents of fortune at their proper 
value. ” 

“Still, ” said the captain, “ I would not make myself known 
abruptly, but in some indirect way. ” 

“ I have told you already, ” said the curate, “ that I will 
manage it in a way to satisfy us all. ” 

By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats 
at the table, except the captive, and the ladies, who supped by 
themselves in their own room.^ In the middle of supper the 
curate said, “ I had a comrade of your worship’s name. Sen or 
Judge, in Constantinople, where I was a captive for several 
years, and the same comrade was one of the stoutest soldiers 
and captains in the whole Spanish infantry ; but he had as 
large a share of misfortune as he had of gallantry and cour- 
age.” 

“ And how was the captain called, senor ? ” asked the judge. 

“ He was called Buy Perez de Viedma,” replied the curate, 
“ and he was born in a village in the mountains of Leon ; and 
he mentioned a circumstance connected with his father and his 
brothers which, had it not been told me by so truthful a man as 
he was, I should have set down as one of those fables the old 
women tell over the fire in winter ; for he said his father had 
divided his property among his three sons and had addressed 
words of advice to them sounder than any of Cato’s. But I 
can say this much, that the choice he made of going to the wars 
was attended with such success, that by his gallant conduct and 
courage, and without any help save his own merit, he rose in a 
few years to be captain of infantry, and to see himself on the 
high-road and in position to be given the command of a corps 
before long ; but Fortune was against him, for where he might 
have expected her favor he lost it, and with it his liberty, on 
that glorious day when so many recovered theirs, at the battle 
of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta, and after a variety 
^ Cervantes apparently forgets that they had supped already. 


CHAPTER XLIL 


363 


of adventures we found ourselves comrades at Constantinople. 
Thence we went to Algiers, where we met with one of the most 
extraordinary adventures that ever befell any one in this world.’' 

Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother’s advent- 
ure with Zoraida ; to all which the judge gave such an attentive 
hearing as he had never yet given to any cause he heard.^ The 
curate, however, only went so far as to describe how the Trench- 
men plundered those who were in the boat, and the poverty and 
distress in which his comrade and the fair Moor were left ; of 
whom he said he had not been able to learn what became of 
them, or whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to 
Trance by the Trenchmen. 

The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all 
the curate said, and watching every movement of his brother, 
who, as soon as he perceived the curate had made an end of his 
story, gave a, deep sigh and said with his eyes full of tears, “ Oh, 
senor, if you only knew what news you have given me and how 
it comes home to me, making me show how I feel it with these 
tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all my worldly wis- 
dom and self-restraint ! That brave captain that you speak of 
is my eldest brother, who, being of a bolder and loftier mind 
than my other brother or myself, chose the honorable and worthy 
calling of arms, which was one of the three careers our father 
proposed to us, as your comrade mentioned in that fable you 
thought he was telling you. I followed that of letters, in 
which God and my own exertions have raised me to the posi- 
tion in which you see me. My second brother is in Peru, so 
wealthy that with what he has sent to my father and to me 
he has fully repaid the portion he took with him, and has even 
furnished my father’s hands with the means of gratifying his 
natural generosity, while I too have been enabled to pursue my 
studies in a more becoming and creditable fashion, and so to 
attain my present standing. My father is still alive, though 
dying with anxiety to hear of his eldest son, and he prays God 
unceasingly that death may not close his eyes until he has 
looked upon those of his son ; but with regard to him what sur- 
prises me is, that having so much common sense as he had, he 
should have neglected to give any intelligence about himself, 

^ If so, the judge’s views of the value of evidence were peculiar. How 
could the curate, for instance, have known that the Trenchmen robbed his 
friend, if he had never been able to learn whether he reached Spain or 
had been carried off to France? 


364 


DON QUIXOTE. 


either in his troubles and sufferings, or in his prosperity, for if 
his father or any of us had known of his condition he need not 
have waited for that miracle of the reed to obtain his ransom j 
but what now disquiets me is the uncertainty whether those 
Frenchmen may have restored him to liberty, or murdered him 
to hide the robbery. All this will make me continue my jour- 
ney, not with the satisfaction in which I began it, but in the 
deepest melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother ! that 1 only 
knew where thou art now, and I would hasten to seek thee out 
and deliver thee from thy sufferings, though it were to cost 
me suffering myself ! Oh that I could bring news to our old 
father that thou art alive, even wert thou in the deepest dun- 
geon of Barbary ; for his wealth and my brother’s and mine 
would rescue thee thence ! Oh beautiful and generous Zoraida, 
that I could repay thy goodness to a brother ! That I could 
be present at the new birth of thy soul, and at thy bridal that 
would give us all such happiness ! ” 

All this and more the judge uttered with such deep emotion 
at the news he had received of his brother that all who heard 
him shared in it, showing their sympathy with his sorrow. 
The curate, seeing, then, how well he had succeeded in carrying 
out his purpose and the captain’s wishes, had no desire to keep 
them unhappy any longer, so he rose from the table and going 
into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the hand, 
Luscinda, Dorothea, and the judge’s daughter following her. 
The captain was waiting to see what the curate would do, when 
the latter, taking him with the other hand, advanced with both 
of them to where the judge and the others were, and said, 
Let your tears cease to flow, senor judge, and the wish of 
your heart be gratified as fully as you could desire, for you have 
before you your worthy brother and your good sister-in-law. 
He whom you see here is the Captain Viedma, and this is the 
fair Moor who has been so good to him. The Frenchmen I 
told you of have reduced them to the state of poverty you see 
that you may show the generosity of your kind heart.” 

The captain ran to embrace his brother, who placed both 
hands on his breast so as to have a good look at him, holding 
him a little way off ; but as soon as he had fully recognized him 
he clasped him in his arms so closely, shedding such tears of 
heartfelt joy, that most of those present could not but join in 
them. The words the brothers exchanged, the emotion they 
showed can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much less put dowu 


CHAPTER XLIL 


365 


in writing. They told each other in a few words the events of 
their lives ; they showed the true affection of brothers in all its 
strength ; then the judge embraced Zoraida, putting all he 
possessed at her disposal ; then he made his daughter embrace 
her, and the fair Christian and the lovely Moor drew fresh tears 
from every eye. And there was Don Quixote observing all these 
strange proceedings attentively without uttering a word, and 
attributing the whole to chimeras of knight-errantry. Then 
they agreed that the captain and Zoraida should return with 
his brother to Seville, and send news to his father of his having 
been delivered and found, so as to enable him to come and be 
present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for it was 
impossible for the judge to put off his journey, as he was 
informed that in a month from that time the fleet was to sail 
from Seville for New Spain, and to miss the passage would 
have been a great inconvenience to him. In short, everybody 
was well pleased and glad at the captive’s good fortune ; and 
as now almost two-thirds of the night were past they resolved 
to retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don Quixote offered 
to mount guard over the castle lest they should be attacked by 
some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the 
great treasure of beauty the castle contained. Those who 
understood him returned him thanks for this service, and they 
gave the judge an account of his extraordinary humor, with 
which he was not a little amused. Sancho Panza alone was 
fuming at the lateness of the hour for retirement to rest ; and 
he of all was the one that made himself most comfortable, as he 
stretched himself on the trappings of his ass, which, as will be 
told farther on, cost him so dear. 

The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and the 
others having disposed themselves with as little discomfort as 
they could, Don Quixote sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel 
of the castle as he had promised. It happened, however, that 
a little before the approach of dawn a voice so musical and 
sweet reached the ears of the ladies that it forced them all to 
listen attentively, but especially Dorothea, who had been awake, 
and by whose side Dona Clara de Yiedma, for so the judge’s 
daughter was called, lay sleeping. No one could imagine who 
it was that sang so sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied 
by any instrument. At one moment it seemed to them as if 
the singer were in the court-yard, at another in the stable ; and 
as they were all attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the 


366 


DON QUIXOTE, 


door and said, Listen, whoever is not asleep, and you will 
hear a muleteer’s voice that enchants as it chants. ” 

“ We are listening to it already, senor,” said Dorothea ; on 
which Cardenio went away ; and Dorothea, giving all her at- 
tention to it, made out the words of the song to be these : 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULE- 
TEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME 
TO PASS IN THE INN. 

Ah me. Love’s mariner am I ^ 

On Love’s deep ocean sailing ; 

I know not where the haven lies, 

I dare not hope to gain it. 

One solitary distant star 
Is all I have to guide me, 

A brighter orb than those of old 
That Palinurus ^ lighted. 

And vaguely drifting am I borne, 

I know not where it leads me ; 

I fix my gaze on it alone. 

Of all beside it heedless. 


But over-cautious prudery. 

And coyness cold and cruel. 

When most I need it, these, like clouds. 

Its longed-for light refuse me. 

Bright star,® goal of my yearning eyes 
As thou above me beamest, 

When thou shalt hide thee from my sight 
I ’ll know that death is near me. 

• In this translation an attempt has been made to imitate the prevailing 
rhyme of the Spanish ballad, the double assonant in the second and fourth 
lines. 

* Surgit Palinurus, et . . . 

Sidera cuncta notat tacito labentia coelo. — jEneid iii. 

* ' Clara estrella.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


367 


The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it 
was not fair to let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, 
shaking her from side to side, she woke her, saying, “ Forgive 
me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have 
the pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, 
perhaps, in all thy life.’^ Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not 
understanding at the moment what Dorothea said, asked her 
what it was ; she repeated what she had said, and Clara be- 
came attentive at once ; but she had hardly heard two lines, 
as the singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, 
as if she were suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, 
and throwing her arms round Dorothea she said, ^^Ah, dear 
lady of my soul and life ! why did you wake me ? The great- 
est kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my 
eyes and ears so as neither to see nor hear that unhappy 
musician.’^ 

“What art thou talking about, child?’' said Dorothea. 
“ WTiy, they say this singer is a muleteer.” 

“ Nay, he is the lord of many places,” replied Clara, “ and 
that one in my heart which he holds so firmly shall never be 
trk:en from him, unless he be willing to surrender it.” 

Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for 
it seemed to be far beyond such experience of life as her tender 
years gave any promise of, so she said to her, “ You speak in 
such a way that I cannot understand you, Senora Clara ; ex- 
plain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are 
saying about hearts and places and this musician whose voice 
has so moved you ? But do not tell me anything now ; I do 
not want to lose the pleasure I get from listening to the singer 
1^ giving my attention to your transports, for I perceive he is 
beginning to sing a new strain and a new air.” 

“ Let him, in Heaven’s name,” returned Clara ; and not to 
hear him she stopped both ears with her hands, at which 
Dorothea was again surprised; but turning her attention to 
the song she found that it ran in this fashion : 

Sweet Hope, my stay, 

That onward to the goal of thy intent 
Dost make thy way. 

Heedless of hinderance or impediment, 

Have thou no fear 

If at each step thou findest death is near. 


368 


DON QUIXOTE. 


No victory, 

No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know ; 
Unblest is he 

That a bold front to Fortune dares not show, 

But soul and sense 

In bondage yieldeth up to indolence. 

If Love his wares 

Do dearly sell, his right must be contest ; 

What gold compares 

With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest ? 

And all men know 

What costeth little that we rate but low.^ 

Love resolute 

Knows not the word impossibility ; ” 

And though my suit 

Beset by endless obstacles I see. 

Yet no despair 

Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there. 

Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all 
which excited Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the 
cause of singing so sweet and weeping so bitter, so she again 
asked her what it was she was going to say before. On this 
Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear her, winding her 
arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her 
ear that she could speak safely without fear of being heard by 
any one else, and said, “ This singer, dear senora, is the son 
of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of two villages, who lives op- 
posite my father’s house at Madrid; and though my father 
had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, and blinds 
in summer, in some way — I know not how — this gentleman, 
who was pursuing his studies, saw me — whether in church or 
elsewhere, I can not tell — and, in fact, fell in love with me, 
and gave me to know it from the windows of his house, with 
so many signs and tears that I was forced to believe him, and 
even to love him, without knowing what it was he wanted 
of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link 
one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry 
me; and, though I should have been glad if that could be, 
* Prov. 190. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


369 


being alone and motherless I knew not whom to open my 
mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing him no favor, ex- 
cept when my father, and his too, were from home, to raise 
the curtain or the blind a little and let him see me plainly, at 
which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he 
were going mad. Meanwhile the time for my father’s de- 
parture arrived, which he became aware of, but not from me, 
for I had never been able to tell him of it. He fell sick, of 
grief I believe, and so the day we were going away I could not 
see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the eyes. 
But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the 
posada of a village a day’s journey from this, I saw him at 
the inn door in the dress of a muleteer, and so well disguised, 
that if I did not carry his image graven on my heart it would 
have been impossible for me to recognize him. But I knew 
him, and I was surprised, and glad ; he watched me, unsus- 
pected by my father, from whom he always hides himself 
when he crosses my path on the road, or in the posadas where 
we halt ; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for love 
of me he makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am 
ready to die of sorrow ; and where he sets foot there I set my 
eyes. I know not with what object’ he has come ; or how he 
could have got away from his father, who loves him beyond 
measure, having no other heir, and because he deserves it, as 
you will perceive when you see him. And moreover, I can 
tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head ; for I have 
heard them say he is a great scholar and poet ; and what is 
more, every time I see him or hear him sing I tremble all over, 
and am terrified lest my father should recognize him and 
come to know of our loves. I have never spoken a word to 
him in my life ; and for all that I love him so that I could not 
live without him. This, dear senora, is all I have to tell you 
about the musician whose voice has delighted you so much ; 
and from it alone you might easily perceive he is no muleteer, 
but a lord of hearts and towns, as I told you already.” 

Say no more, Dona Clara,” said Dorothea at this, at the 
same time kissing her a thousand times over, say no more, I 
tell you, but wait till day comes; when I trust in God to 
arrange this affair of yours so that it may have the happy 
ending such an innocent beginning deserves.” 

“ Ah, senora,” said Dona Clara, “ what end can be hoped for 
when his father is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that 

VOL. I. - 24 


870 


DON QUIXOTE. 


iie would think I was not fit to be even a servant to his son, 
much less wife ? And as to marrying without the knowledge 
of my father, I would not do it for all the world. I would 
not ask anything more than that this youth should go back 
and leave me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long 
distance we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now may 
become easier ; though I dare say the remedy I propose will 
do me very little good. I don’t know by what deviltry this has 
come about, or how this love I have for him got in ; I such a 
young girl, and he such a mere boy ; for I verily believe we 
are both of an age, and I am not sixteen yet ; for I shall be 
sixteen Michaelmas Day next, my father says.” 

Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child 
Dona Clara spoke. ^^Let us go to sleep now, senora,” said 
she, for the little of the night that I fancy is left to us : God 
will soon send us daylight, and we will set all to rights, or it 
will go hard with me.” 

With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all 
through the inn. The only persons not asleep were the land- 
lady’s daughter and her servant Maritornes, who, knowing the 
weak point of Don Quixote’s humor, and that he was outside 
the inn mounting guard in armor and on horseback, resolved, 
the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or at any rate 
to amuse themselves for a while by listening to his nonsense. 
As it so happened there was not a window in the whole inn 
that looked outwards except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft 
through which they used to throw out the straw. At this hole 
the two demi-damsels posted themselves, and observed Don 
Quixote on his horse, leaning on his pike and from time to 
time sending forth such deep and doleful sighs, that he seemed 
to pluck up his soul by the roots with each of them ; and they 
could hear him, too, saying in a soft, tender, loving tone, Oh 
my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of all beauty, summit 
and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depository of 
virtue, and, finally, ideal of all that is good, honorable, and 
delectable in this world ! What is thy grace doing now ? 
Art thou, perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of 
his own free will hath exposed himself to so great perils, and 
all to serve thee ? Give me tidings of her, oh luminary of 
the three faces ! ^ Perhaps at this moment, envious of hers, 
thou art regarding her, either as she paces to and fro some 
* "Tria virginis ora Dianae.” — jEneid iv. 511. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


371 


gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony, 
meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, 
she may mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine 
endures for her sake, what glory should recompense my suffer- 
ings, what repose my toil, and lastly what death my life, and 
what reward my services ? And thou, oh sun, that art now 
doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise betimes and 
come forth to see my lady ; when thou seest her I entreat of 
thee to salute her on my behalf : but have a care, when thou 
shalt see her and salute her, that thou kiss not her face ; for I 
shall be more jealous of thee than thou wert of that light- 
footed ingrate ^ that made thee sweat and run so on the plains 
of Thessaly, or on the banks of the Peneus (for I do not ex- 
actly recollect where it was thou didst run on that occasion) 
in thy jealousy and love/’ 

Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the 
landlady’s daughter began to signal ^ to him, saying, Senor, 
come over here, please.” 

At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and 
saw by the light of the moon, which then was in its full splen- 
dor, that some one was calling to him from the hole in the wall, 
which seemed to him to be a window, and what is more, with a 
gilt grating, as rich castles, such as he believed the inn to be, 
ought to have ; and it immediately suggefited itself to his imag- 
ination that, as on the former occasion, the fair damsel, the 
daughter of the lady of the castle, overcome by love for him, 
was once more endeavoring to win his affections ; and with this 
idea, not to show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he turned 
Pocinante’s head aftd approached the hole, and as he per- 
ceived the two wenches he said, I pity you, beauteous lady, 
that you should have directed your thoughts of love to a 
quarter from whence it is impossible that such a return can 
be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle birth, 
for which you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom 
love renders incapable of submission to any other than her 
whom, the first moment his eyes beheld her, he made absolute 
mistress of his soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and retire to your 
apartment, and do not, by any further declaration of your pas- 
sion, compel me to show myself more ungrateful ; and if, of the 

' i.e. Daphne. 

* Gecear — to call attention by making a hissing sound such as iha 
Andalusians produce when they have to pronounce ce. 


872 


DON QUIXOTE. 


love you bear me, you should find that there is anything else 
in my power wherein I can gratify you, provided it be not love 
itself, demand it of me; for I swear to you by that sweet ab- 
sent enemy of mine to grant it this instant, though it be that 
you require of me a lock of Medusa’s hair, which was all 
snakes, or even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.” 

“ My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,” said 
Maritornes at this. 

What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants ? ” 
replied Don Quixote. 

Only one of your fair hands,” said Maritornes, to enable 
her to vent over it the great passion which has brought her to 
this loophole, so much to the risk of her honor ; for if the lord 
her father had heard her, the least slice he would cut off her 
would be her ear.” 

I should like to see that tried,” said Don Quixote ; but he 
had better beware of that, if he does not want to meet the 
most disastrous end that ever father in the world met for 
having laid hands on the tender limbs of a love-stricken 
daughter.” 

Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the 
hand she had asked, and making up her mind what to do, she 
got down from the hole and went into the stable, where she 
took the halter of Sancho Panza’s ass, and in all haste re- 
turned to the hole, just as Don Quixote had planted himself 
standing on Rocinante’s saddle in order to reach the grated 
window where he supposed the love-lorn damsel to be ; and 
giving her his hand, he said, Lady, take this hand, or rather 
this scourge of the evil-doers of the earth ; take, I say, this 
hand which no other hand of woman has ever touched, not 
even hers who has complete possession of my entire body. 
I present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that you may 
observe the contexture of the sinews, the close network of the 
muscles, the breadth and capacity of the veins, whence you 
may infer what must be the strength of the arm that has such 
a hand.” 

That we shall see presently,” said Maritornes, and making 
a running knot on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and 
coming down from the hole tied the other end very firmly to 
the bolt of the door of the straw-loft. 

Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, 
exclaimed, Your grace seems to be grating rather than caress- 


vHAPTER XLIIl. 


373 


ing my hand ; treat it not so harshly, for it is not to blame foi 
the offence my resolution has given you, nor is it just to wreak 
all your vengeance on so small a part ; remember that one who 
loves so well should not revenge herself so cruelly.’’ 

But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don 
Quixote’s, for as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the 
other made off, ready to die with laughing, leaving him fas- 
tened in such a way that it was impossible for him to release 
himself. 

He was, as has been said, standing on Eocinante, with his 
arm passed through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of 
the door, and in mighty fear and dread of being left hanging 
by the arm if Eocinante were to stir one side or the other ; so 
he did not dare to make the least movement, although from the 
patience and imperturbable disposition of Eocinante, he had 
good reason to expect that he would stand without budging for 
a whole century. Finding himself fast, then, and that the 
ladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was done by 
enchantment, as on the former occasion when in that same 
castle that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belabored him ; 
and he cursed in his heart his own want of sense and judgment 
in venturing to enter the castle again, after having come off so 
badly the first time ; it being a settled point with knights-errant 
that when they have tried an adventure, and have not suc- 
ceeded in it, it is a sign that it is not reserved for them but 
for others, and that therefore they need not try it again. 
Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release him- 
self, but it had been made so fast that all his efforts were in 
vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Eocinante should move, 
but try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had 
nothing for it but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then 
it was he wished for the sword of Amadis, against which no 
enchantment whatever had any power ; then he cursed his ill 
fortune ; then he magnified the loss the world would sustain 
by his absence while he remained there enchanted, for that he 
believed he was beyond all doubt ; then he once more took to 
thinking of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso ; then he called to 
his worthy squire Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and 
stretched upon the pack-saddle of his ass, was oblivious, at that 
moment, of the mother that bore him ; then he called upon 
the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife ^ to come to his aid ; then he 
* Magicians that figure in The Knight of Phoebus. 


374 


DON QUIXOTE, 


invoked his good friend Urganda to succor him ; and then, at 
last, morning found him in such a state of desperation and 
perplexity that he was bellowing like a bull, for he had no 
hope that day would bring any relief to his suffering, which he 
believed would last forever, inasmuch as he was enchanted ; 
and of this he was convinced by seeing that Eocinante never 
stirred, much or little, and he felt persuaded that he and his 
horse were to remain in this state, without eating or drinking 
or sleeping, until the malign influence of the stars was over- 
past, or until some other more sage enchanter should disen- 
chant him. 

But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for day- 
light had hardly begun to appear when there came up to the 
inn four men on horseback, well equipped and accoutred, with 
firelocks across their saddle-bows. They called out and knocked 
loudly at the gate of the inn, which was still shut ; on seeing 
which, Don Quixote, even there where he was, did not forget 
to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and imperious tone, 

Knights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have no right to 
knock at the gates of this castle ; for it is plain enough that 
they who are within are either asleep, or else are not in the 
habit of throwing open the fortress until the sun’s rays are 
spread over the whole surface of the earth. Withdraw to a 
distance, and wait till it is broad daylight, and then we shall 
see whether it will be proper or not to open to you.” 

What the devil fortress or castle is this,” said one, to 
make us stand on such ceremony ? If you are the innkeeper 
bid them open to us ; we are travellers who only want to feed 
our horses and go on, for we are in haste.” 

“ Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper ? ” 
said Don Quixote. 

“ I dorr’t know what you look like,” replied the other ; but 
I know that you are talking nonsense when you call this inn a 
castle.” 

A castle it is,” returned Don Quixote, nay, more, one of 
the best in this whole province, and it has within it people 
who have had the sceptre in the hand and the crown on the 
head.” 

^^It would be better if it were the other way,” said the 
traveller, the sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand ; 
but if so, maybe there is within some company of players, with 
whom it is a common thing to have those crowns and sceptres 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


375 


you speak of ; for in such a small inn as this, and where such 
silence is kept, I do not believe any people entitled to crowns 
and sceptres can have taken up their quarters.’’ 

You know but little of the world,” returned Don Quixote, 
since you are ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight- 
errantry.” 

But the comrades of the spokesman growing weary of the 
dialogue with Don Quixote, renewed their knocks with great 
vehemence, so much so that the host, and not only he but 
everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got up to ask who 
knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the horses 
of the four who were seeking admittance went to smell Boci- 
nante, who melancholy, dejected, and with drooping ears, stood 
motionless, supporting his sorely stretched master ; and as he 
was, after all, flesh, though he looked as if he were made of 
wood, he could not help giving way and in return smelling the 
one who had come to offer him attentions. But he had hardly 
moved at all when Don Quixote lost his footing ; and slipping 
off the saddle, he would have come to the ground, but for 
being suspended by the arm, which caused him such agony that 
he believed either his wrist would be cut through or his arm 
torn off ; and he hung so near the ground that he could just 
touch it with his feet, which was all the worse for him ; for, 
finding how little was wanted to enable him to plant his feet 
firmly, he struggled and stretched himself as much as he could 
to gain a footing ; just like those undergoing the torture of the 
strappado, when they are fixed at touch and no touch,” who 
aggravate their own sufferings by their violent efforts to stretch 
themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy 
that with a very little more they will reach the ground.^ 

’ There is some inconsistency here. How could Don Quixote fall almost 
to the ground, if when standing on Rocinante he was tied up so tightly as 
we are told? Hartzenbusch, more suo, has an ingenious explanation, by 
which he avoids the simpler one, that Cervantes never gave a thought to 
the matter. The strappado was inflicted by tying the hands of the victim 
behind his back and then hanging him by the wrists from a crossbeam or 
bough of a tree. Examples of it may be seen among Callot’s sketches. 
There is something almost ghastly in its introduction here as an illustra* 
tion which must as a matter of course be familiar to every reader. 


376 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF 

THE INN. 

So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the 
landlord opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in 
dismay, and ran to see who was uttering such cries, and those 
who were outside joined him. Maritornes, who had been by 
this time roused up by the same outcry, suspecting what it was, 
ran to the loft and, without any one seeing her, untied the 
halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and down he 
came to the ground in the sight of the landlord and the trav- 
ellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with 
him that he shouted so. He without replying a word took 
the rope off his wrist, and rising to his feet leaped upon Ro- 
cinante, braced his buckler on his arm, put his lance in rest, 
and making a considerable circuit of the plain came back at a 
half gallop exclaiming, Whoever shall say that I have been 
enchanted with just cause, provided my lady the Princess Mi- 
comicona grants me permission to do so, I give him the lie, 
challenge him and defy him to single combat.’’ 

The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of 
Don Quixote ; but the landlord removed their surprise by tell- 
ing them who he was, and not to mind him as he was out of 
his senses. They then asked the landlord if by any chance a 
youth of about fifteen years of age had come to that inn, one 
dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an appearance, 
describing that of Dona Clara’s lover. The landlord replied 
that there were so many people in the inn he had not noticed 
the person they were inquiring for ; but one of them obserAung 
the coach in which the judge had come, said, He is here no 
doubt, for this is the coach he is following : let one of us stay 
at the gate, and the rest go in to look for him ; or indeed it 
would be as well if one of us went round the inn, lest he should 
escape over the wall of the yard.” So be it,” said another ; 
and Avhile two of them went in, one remained at the gate and 
the other made the circuit of the inn ; observing all which, the 
landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason they were 
taking all these precautions, though he understood they Avere 
looking for the youth whose description they had given him. 


CHAPTER XLIV, 


377 


It was by this time broad daylight ; and for that reason, as 
well as in consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, 
everybody was awake and up, but particularly Dona Clara 
and Dorothea ; for they had been able to sleep but badly that 
night, the one from agitation at having her lover so near her, 
the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he 
saw that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him 
or replied to his challenge, was furious and ready to die with 
indignation and wrath ; and if he could have found in the or- 
dinances of chivalry that it was lawful for a knight-errant to 
undertake or engage in another enterprise, when he had plighted 
his word and faith not to involve himself in any until he had 
made an end of the one to which he was pledged, he would 
have attacked the whole of them, and would have made them 
return an answer in spite of themselves. But considering that 
it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new em- 
prise until he had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he 
was constrained to hold his peace and wait quietly to see what 
would be the upshot of the proceedings of those same travel- 
lers ; one of whom found the youth they were seeking lying 
asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought of any one 
coming in search of him, much less finding him. 

The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, It becomes 
you well indeed, Senor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, 
and well the bed in which I find you agrees with the luxury in 
which your mother reared you.” 

The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at 
him who held him, but presently recognized him as one of his 
father’s servants, at which he was so taken aback that for 
some time he could not find or utter a word ; while the servant 
went on to say, There is nothing for it now, Senor Don Luis, 
but to submit quietly and return home, unless it is your wish 
that my lord, your father, should take his departure for the 
other world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the 
grief he is in at your absence.” 

But how did my father know that I had gone this road and 
in this dress ? ” said Don Luis. 

It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,” 
answered the servant, “ that disclosed them, touched with pity 
at the distress he saw your father suffer on missing you ; he 
therefore despatched four of his servants in quest of you, and 
here we all are at your service, better pleased than you can 


378 


DON QUIXOTE. 


imagine that we shall return so soon and restore you to those 
eyes that so yearn for you.” 

That shall be as I please, or as Heaven orders,” returned 
Hon Luis. 

What can you please or Heaven order,” said the other, ex« 
cept to agree to go back ? Anything else is impossible.” 

All this conversation between the two was overheard by the 
muleteer at whose side Hon Luis lay, and rising, he went to 
report what had taken place to Hon Fernando, Cardenio, and 
the others, who had by this time dressed themselves ; and told 
them how the man had addressed the youth as Hon,” and 
what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to 
his father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, 
and what they already knew of the rare voice that Heaven had 
bestowed upon him, they all felt very anxious to know more 
particularly who he was, and even to help him if it was at- 
tempted to emplo}’’ force against him ; so they hastened to 
where he was still talking and arguing with his servant. Hor- 
othea at this instant came out of her room, followed by Hona 
Clara all in a tremor ; and calling Cardenio aside, she told him 
in a few words the story of the musician and Hona Clara, and 
he at the same time told what had happened, how his father’s 
servants had come in search of him ; but in telling her so, he 
did not speak low enough but that Hona Clara heard what he 
said, at which she was so much agitated that had not Horothea 
hastened to support her she would have fallen to the ground. 
Cardenio then bade Horothea return to her room, as he would 
endeavor to make the whole matter right, and they did as he 
desired. All the four who had come in quest of Hon Luis had 
now come into the inn aud surrounded him, urging him to re- 
turn and console his father and at once without a moment’s 
delay. He replied that he could not do so on any account 
until he had concluded some business in which his life, honor, 
and heart were at stake. The servants pressed him, saying 
that most certainly they would not return without him, and 
that they would take him away whether he liked it or not. 

You shall not do that,” replied Hon Luis, unless you take 
me dead ; though however you take me, it will be without 
life.” 

By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by 
the dispute, but particularly Cardenio, Hon Fernando, his com- 
panions, the judge, the curate, the barber, and Hon Quixote ,• 


CHAPTER XLIV, 


379 


for he now considered there was no necessity for mounting 
guard over the castle any longer. Cardenio being already ac- 
quainted with the young man’s story, asked the men who wanted 
to take him, what object they had in seeking to carry off this 
youth against his will. 

Our object,” said one of the four, is to save the life of 
his father, who is in danger of losing it through this gentle- 
man’s disappearance.” 

Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, “ There is no need to make 
my affairs public here ; I am free, and I will return if I 
please ; and if not, none of you shall compel me.” 

Reason will compel your worship,” said the man, and if 
it has no power over you, it has power over us, to make us do 
what we came for, and what it it our duty to do.” 

Let us hear what the whole affair is about,” said the judge 
at this ; but the man, who knew him as a neighbor of theirs, 
replied, Do you not know this gentleman, senor judge ? He 
is the son of your neighbor, who has run away from his father’s 
house in a dress so unbecoming his rank, as your worship may 
perceive.” 

The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recog- 
nized him, and embracing him said, “ What folly is this, Senor 
Don Luis, or what can have been the cause that could have 
induced you to come here in this way, and in this dress, which 
so ill becomes your condition ? ” 

Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was un- 
able to utter a word in reply to the judge, who told the four 
servants not to be uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily set- 
tled ; and then taking Don Luis by the hand, he drew him 
aside and asked the reason of his having come there. 

But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry 
at the gate of the inn, the cause of which was that two of the 
guests who had passed the night there, seeing everybody busy 
about finding out what it was the four men wanted, had con- 
ceived the idea of going off without paying what they owed ; 
but the landlord, who minded his own affairs more than other 
people’s, caught them going out of the gate and demanded his 
reckoning, abusing them for their dishonesty with such lan- 
guage that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so they 
began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was 
forced to cry out, and call for help. The landlady and her 
daughter could see no one more free to give aid than Dow 


380 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Quixote, and to him the daughter said, Sir knight, by the 
virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for there are 
two wicked men beating him to a mummy.” 

To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically 
replied, Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is 
inopportune, for I am debarred from involving myself in any 
adventure until I have brought to a happy conclusion one to 
which my word has pledged me ; but that which I can do for 
you is what I will now mention : run and tell your father to 
stand his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no 
account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and re- 
quest permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to 
succor him in his distress ; and if she grants it, rest assured I 
will relieve him from it.” 

‘‘ Sinner that I am,” exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by ; 

before you have got your permission my master will be in 
the other world.” 

Give me leave, senora, to obtain the permission I speak 
of,” returned Don Quixote ; and if I get it, it will matter very 
little if he is in the other world ; for I will rescue him thence 
in spite of all the same world can do ; or at any rate I will 
give you such a revenge over those who shall have sent him 
there that you will be more than moderately satisfied ; ” and 
without saying anything more he went and knelt before Doro- 
thea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase 
to be pleased to grant him permission to aid and succor the 
castellan of the castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. 
The princess granted it graciously, and he at once, bracing his 
buckler on his arm and drawing his sword, hastened to the 
inn-gate, where the two guests were handling the landlord 
roughly ; but as soon as he reached the spot he stopped short 
and stood still, though Maritornes and the landlady asked him 
why he hesitated to help their master and husband. 

“ I hesitate,” said Don Quixote, because it is not lawful for 
me to draw’ sword against persons of squirely condition ; but 
call my squire Sancho to me ; for this defence and vengeance 
are his affair and business.” 

Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very 
lively exchange of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage 
of the landlord and to the wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, 
and her daughter, who were furious when they saw the pusil- 
lanimity of Don Quixote, and the hard treatment their master, 


CHAPTER XL IV. 


381 


husband, and father was undergoing. But let us leave him 
there ; for he will surely find some one to help him, and if not, 
let him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts more than his 
strength allows him to do ; and let us go back fifty paces to see 
what Don Luis said in reply to the judge whom we left ques- 
tioning him privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and 
so meanly dressed. 

To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed 
his heart was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a 
flood of tears, made answer : “ Senor, I have no more to tell 
you than that for the moment when, through Heaven’s will and 
our being near neighbors, I first saw Dona Clara, your daughter 
and my lady, from that instant I made her the mistress of my 
will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no impedi- 
ment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left 
my father’s house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to fol- 
low her whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark 
or the sailor the pole-star. She knows nothing more of my 
passion than what she may have learned from having some- 
times seen from a distance that my eyes were filled with tears. 
You know already, senor, the wealth and noble birth of my 
parents, and that I am their sole heir ; if this be a sufficient 
inducement for you to venture to make me completely happy, 
accept me at once as your son ; for if my father, influenced by 
other objects of his own, should disapprove of this happiness I 
have sought for myself, time has more power to alter and 
change things, than human will.” 

With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the judge, 
after hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, 
as well at the manner and intelligence with which Don Luis 
had confessed the secret of his heart, as at the position in 
which he found himself, not knowing what course to take in a 
matter so sudden and unexpected. All the answer, therefore, he 
gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for the present, 
and arrange with his servants not to take him back that day, 
so that there might be time to consider what was best for all 
parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them 
with his tears, in a way that would have touched a heart of 
marble, not to say that of the judge, who as a shrewd man, 
had already perceived how advantageous the marriage would 
be to his daughter ; though, were it possible, he would have 
preferred that it should be brought about with the consent of 


382 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the father of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title for his 
son. 

The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, 
for, by persuasion and Don Quixote’s fair words more than by 
threats, they had paid him what he demanded, and the servants 
of Don Luis were waiting for the end of the conversation with 
the judge and their master’s decision, when the devil, who never 
sleeps, contrived that the barber, from whom Don Quixote had 
taken Mambrino’s helmet, and Sancho Panza the trappings of 
his ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this instant 
enter the inn ; which said barber, as he led his ass to the 
stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something 
or other belonging to the pack-saddle ; and the moment he saw 
it he knew it, and made bold to attack Sancho, exclaiming, 

Ho, sir thief, I have caught you ! hand over my basin and my 
pack-saddle, and all my trappings that you robbed me of.” 

Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hear- 
ing the abuse poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one 
hand, and with the other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his 
teeth in blood. The barber, however, was not so ready to re- 
linquish the prize he had made in the pack-saddle ; on the con- 
trary, he raised such an outcry that every one in the inn came 
running to know what the noise and quarrel meant. Here, 
in the name of the king and justice ! ” he cried, this thief 
and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my 
property.” 

You lie,” said Sancho, am no highwayman; it was in 
fair war my master Don Quixote won these spoils.” 

Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to 
see his squire’s stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from 
that time forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his 
heart resolved to dub him a knight on the first opportunity that 
presented itself, feeling sure that the order of chivalry would 
be fittingly bestowed upon him. 

In the course of the altercation, among other things the 
barber said, Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as 
I owe God a death, and I know it as well as if I had given 
birth to it, and here is my ass in the stable who will not let me 
lie ; only try it, and if it does not fit him like a glove, call me 
a rascal ; and what is more, the same day I was robbed of this, 
they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never yet hand- 
selled, that would fetch a crown any day.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


m 


At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answer- 
ing ; and interposing between the two, and separating them, 
he placed the pack-saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight 
until the truth was established, and said, Your worships may 
perceive clearly and plainly the error under which this worthy 
squire lies when he calls that a basin which was, is, and shall 
be the helmet of Mambrino, which I won from him in fair 
war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful 
possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself ; 
but I may tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked 
my permission to strip off the caparison of this vanquished 
poltroon’s steed, and with it adorn his own ; I allowed him, 
and he took it ; and as to its having been changed from a capar- 
ison into a pack-saddle, I can give no explanation except the 
usual one, that such transformations will take place in advent- 
ures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run, Sancho my son, 
and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a 
basin.” 

“ Egad, master,” said Sancho, if we have no other proof of 
our case than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino’ s 
helmet is just as much a basin as this good fellow’s caparison 
is a pack-saddle.” 

“ Do as I bid thee,” said Don Quixote ; it can not be that 
everything in this castle goes by enchantment.” 

Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back 
with him, and when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it 
and said, Your worships may see with what a face this squire 
can assert that this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of ; 
and I swear by the order of chivalry I profess, that this hel- 
met is the identical one I took from him, without anything 
added to or taken from it.” 

There is no doubt of that,” said Sancho, for from the 
time my master won it until now he has only fought one battle 
in it, when he let loose those unlucky men in chains ; and if it 
had not been for this basin-helmet he would not have come off 
over well that time, for there was plenty of stone-throwing in 
that affair.” 


384 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO’s HELMET 

AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER 

ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST. 

^‘ What do you think now^ gentlemen,” said the barber, of 
what these gentles say, when they even want to make out that 
this is not a basin but a helmet ? ” 

And whoever says the contrary,” said Don Quixote, I 
will let him know he lies if he is a knight, and if he is a 
squire that he lies again a thousand times.” 

Our own barber, who was present at all this, and understood 
Don Quixote’s humor so thoroughly, took it into his head to 
back up his delusion and carry on the joke for the general 
amusement ; so addressing the other barber he said, Senor 
barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to 
your profession too, and have had a license to practise for 
more than twenty years, and I know the implements of the 
barber craft, every one of them, perfectly well ; and I was 
likewise a soldier for some time in the days of my youth, and 
I know also what a helmet is, and a morion, and a headpiece 
with a visor, and other things pertaining to soldiering, I mean 
to say to soldiers’ arms ; and I say — saving better opinions 
and always with submission to sounder judgments — that this 
piece we have now before us, which this worthy gentleman has 
in his hands, not only is no barber’s basin, but is as far from 
being one as white is from black, and truth from falsehood ; T 
say, moreover, that this, although it is a helmet, is not a com 
plete helmet.” 

Certainly not,” said Don Quixote, for half of it is wanting, 
that is to say the beaver.” 

“ It is quite true,” said the curate, who saw the object of his 
friend the barber ; and Cardenio, Don Fernando and his com- 
panions agreed with him, and even the judge, if his thoughts 
had not been so full of Don Luis’s affair, would have helped 
to carry on the joke ; but he was so taken up with the serious 
matters he had on his mind that he paid little or no attention 
to these facetious proceedings. 

God bless me ! ” exclaimed their butt the barber at this ; 
is it possible that such an honorable company can say that 


CHAPTER XLV. 


385 


this is not a basin but a helmet ? Why, this is a thing that 
would astonish a whole imiversity, however wise it might be ! 
That will do ; if this basin is a helmet, why, then the pack- 
saddle must be a horse’s caparison, as this gentleman has 
said.” 

“ To me it looks like a pack-saddle,” said Don Quixote ; 
but I have already said that with that question I do not con- 
cern myself.” 

As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison,” said the cu- 
rate, it is only for Senor Don Quixote to say ; for in these mat- 
ters of chivalry all these gentlemen and I bow to his authority.” 

By God, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, so many strange 
things have happened to me in this castle on the two occasions 
on which I have sojourned in it, that I will not venture to as- 
sert anything positively in reply to any question, touching any- 
thing it contains ; for it is my belief that everything that 
goes on within it goes by enchantment. The first time, an en- 
chanted Moor that there is in it gave me sore trouble, nor did 
Sancho fare well among certain followers of his ; and last 
night I was kept hanging by this arm for nearly two hours, with- 
out knowing how or why I came by such a mishap. So that 
now, for me to come forward to give an opinion in such a puz- 
zling matter, would be to risk a rash decision. As regards the 
assertion that this is a basin and not a helmet I have already 
given an answer ; but as to the question whether this is a pack- 
saddle or a caparison I will not venture to give a positive 
opinion, but will leave it to your worship’s better judgment. 
Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights like myself, the en- 
chantments of this place have nothing to do with you, and 
your faculties are unfettered, and you can see things in this 
castle as they really and truly are, and not as they appear 
to me.” 

There can be no question,” said Don Fernando on this, 
“ but that Senor Don Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that 
with us rests the decision of this matter ; and that we may 
have surer ground to go on, I will take the votes of the gentle- 
men in secret, and declare the result clearly and fully.” 

To those who were in the secret of Don Quixote’s humor all 
this afforded great amusement ; but to those who knew noth- 
ing about it, it seemed the greatest nonsense in the world, in 
particular to the four servants of Don Luis, as well as to 
Don Luis himself, and to three other travellers who had by 

VoL. I.— 25 


386 


DON QUIXOTE. 


chance come to the inn, and had the appearance of officers of 
the Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were ; but the one who 
above all was at his wits’ end was the barber whose basin, 
there before his very eyes, had been turned into Mambrino’s 
helmet, and whose pack-saddle, he had no doubt whatever was 
about to become a rich capa,rison for a horse. All laughed to 
see Don Eernando going from one to another collecting the 
votes, and whispering to them to give him their private opinion 
whether the treasure over which there had been so much fight- 
ing was a pack-saddle or a caparison ; but after he had taken 
the votes of those who knew Don Quixote, he said aloud, The 
fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting such a num- 
ber of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom I ask 
what I desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd 
to say that this is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the capar- 
ison of a horse, nay, of a thoroughbred horse ; so you must 
submit, for, in spite of you and your ass, this is a caparison 
and no pack-saddle, and you have stated and proved your case 
very badly.” 

May I never share heaven,” said the poor barber, if your 
worships are not all mistaken ; and may my soul appear before 
God as that appears to me a pack-saddle and not a caparison j 
but ^ laws go,’ ‘ — I say no more ; and indeed I am not drunk, 
for I am fasting, except it be from sin.” 

The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement 
than the absurdities of Don Quixote, who now observed, There 
is no more to be done now than for each to take what belongs 
to him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his 
blessing.” 

But said one of the four servants, Unless, indeed, this is a 
deliberate joke, I can not bring myself to believe that men so 
intelligent as those present are, or seem to be, can venture to 
declare and assert that this is not a basin, and that not a pack- 
saddle ; but as I perceive that they do assert and declare it, I 
can only come to the conclusion that there is some mystery in 
this persistence in what is so opposed to the evidence of eX' 
perience and truth itself ; for I swear by ” — and here he 

' Prov. 204. " Laws go as kings like : ” a very old proverb, said to owe 

its origin to the summary manner in which Alfonso VI. at Toledo settled 
the question as to which of the rival rituals, the French or the Musarabic, 
was to be adopted. It was agreed to try them by the test of fire, and the 
latter came out victorious, on which the king, who favored the other, flung 
it back into the flames. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


387 


rapped out a round oath — all the people in the world will 
not make me believe that this is not a barber’s basin and that, 
a jackass’s pack-saddle.” 

It might easily be a she-ass’s,” observed the curate. 

It is all the same,” said the servant ; that is not the point ; 
but whether it is or is not a pack-saddle, as your worships say.” 

On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the 
Brotherhood, who had been listening to the dispute and con- 
troversy, unable to restrain his anger and impatience, ex- 
claimed, It is a pack-saddle as sure as my father is my 
father, and whoever has said or will say anything else must 
be drunk.” 

You lie like a rascally clown,” returned Don Quixote ; and 
lifting his pike, which he had never let out of his hand, he 
delivered such a blow at his head that, had not the officer- 
dodged it, it would have stretched him at full length. The 
pike was shivered in pieces against the ground, and the rest of 
the officers, seeing their comrade assaulted, raised a shout, call- 
ing for help for the Holy Brotherhood. The landlord, who was 
of the fraternity, ran at once to fetch his staff of office and his 
sword, and ranged himself on the side of his comrades ; the 
servants of Don Luis clustered round him, lest he should escape 
from them in the confusion ; the barber, seeing the house 
turned upside down, once more laid hold of his pack-saddle and 
Sancho did the same ; Don Quixote drew his sword, and 
charged the officers ; Don Luis cried out to his servants to 
leave him alone and go and help Don Quixote, and Cardenio 
and Don Fernando, who were supporting him ; the curate was 
shouting at the top of his voice, the landlady was screaming, 
her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was weeping, Dorothea 
was aghast, Luscinda terror-stricken, and Dona Clara in a faint. 
The barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the 
barber ; Don Luis gave one of his servants, who ventured to 
catch him by the arm to keep him from escaping, a cuff that 
bathed his teeth in blood ; the judge took his part ; Don Fer- 
nando had got one of the officers down and was belaboring him 
heartily ; the landlord raised his voice again calling for help 
for the Holy Brotherhood ; so that the whole inn was nothing 
but cries, shouts, shrieks, confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps, 
sword-cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed ; and in 
the midst of all this chaos, complication, and general entangle- 
ment, Don Quixote took it into his head that he had been 


388 


DON QUIXOTE, 


plunged into the thick of the discord of Agrainante’s camp ; ^ 
and, in a voice that shook the inn like thunder, he cried out. 
Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and 
attend to me as they value their lives ! ’’ 

All paused at his mighty voice, and he went on to say, Did 
I not tell you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a 
legion or so of devils dwelt in it ? In proof whereof I call 
upon you to behold with your own eyes how the discord of 
Agramante’s camp has come hither, and been transferred into 
the midst of us. See how they fight, there for the sword, here 
for the horse, on that side for the eagle, on this for the helmet ; 
we are all fighting, and all at cross purposes. Come then, you, 
senor judge, and you, sehor curate ; let the one represent King 
Agramante and the other King Sobrino, and make peace 
among us ; for by God Almighty it is a sorry business that so 
many persons of quality as we are should slay one another for 
such trifling cause. 

The officers, who did not understand Don Quixote’s mode of 
speaking, and found themselves roughly handled by Don Fer- 
nando, Cardenio, and their companions, were not to be ap- 
peased ; the barber was, however, for both his beard and his 
pack-saddle were the worse for the struggle ; Sancho like a 
good servant obeyed the slightest word of his master ; while 
the four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when they saw how 
little they gained by not being so. The landlord alone insisted 
upon it that they must punish the insolence of this madman, 
who at every turn raised a disturbance in the inn ; but at 
length the uproar was stilled for the present ; the pack-saddle 
remained a caparison till the day of judgment, and the basin 
a helmet and the inn a castle in Don Quixote’s imagination. 

All having been now pacified and made friends by the per- 
suasion of the judge and the curate, the servants of Don Luis 
began again to urge him to return with them at once ; and 
while he was discussing the matter with them, the judge took 
counsel with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate as to 
what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it stood, and 
what Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that 
Don Fernando should tell the servants of Don Luis who he 
was, and that it was his desire that Don Luis should accom- 

• V . Orlando Furioso^ canto xxvii. Agramante was the leader of the 
Mohammedan kings and princes assembled at the siege of Paris, of whom 
Sobrino was one. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


389 


pany him to Andalusia, where he woulcl receive from the mar- 
quis his brother the welcome his quality entitled him to ; for, 
otherwise, it was easy to see from the determination of Don 
Luis that he would not return to his father at present, though 
they tore him to pieces. On learning the rank of Don Der- 
nando and the resolution of Don Luis the four then settled it 
between themselves that three of them should return to tell 
his father how matters stood, and that the other should remain 
to wait upon Don Luis and not leave him until they came back 
for him, or his father’s orders were known. Thus by the author- 
ity of Agramante and the wisdom of King Sobrino all this com- 
plication of disputes was arranged ; but the enemy of concord 
and hater of peace, feeling himself slighted and made a fool 
of, and seeing how little he had gained after having involved 
them all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved to try his 
hand once more by stirring up fresh quarrels and disturbances. 

It came about in this wise : the officers were pacified on 
learning the rank of those with whom they had been engaged, 
and withdrew from the contest, considering that whatever the 
result might be they were likely to get the worst of the battle ; 
but one of them, the one who had been thrashed and kicked 
by Don Fernando, recollected that among some warrants he 
carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one against 
Don Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be 
arrested for setting the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with 
very good reason, apprehended. Suspecting how it was, then, 
he wished to satisfy himself as to whether Don Quixote’s feat- 
ures corresponded ; and taking a parchment out of his bosom 
he lit upon what he was in search of, and setting himself to 
read it deliberately, for he was iiot a quick reader, as he made 
out each word he fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and went on 
comparing the description in the warrant with his face, and 
discovered that beyond all doubt he was the person described 
in it. As soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up the 
parchment, he took the warrant in his left hand and with his 
right seized Don Quixote by the collar so tightly that he did 
not allow him to breathe, and shouted aloud, Help for the 
Holy Brotherhood ! and that you may see I demand it in ear- 
nest, read this warrant which says this highwayman is to be 
arrested.” 

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer 
said was true, and that it agreed with Don Quixote’s appear- 


390 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ance, who, on his part, when he found himself roughly handled 
by this rascally clown, worked up to the highest pitch of wrath, 
and all his joints cracking with rage, with both hands seized 
the officer by the throat with all his might, so that had he not 
been helped by his comrades he would have yielded up his life 
ere Don Quixote released his hold. The landlord, who had 
perforce to support his brother officers, ran at once to aid them. 
The landlady, when she saw her husband engaged in a fresh 
quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its note was immedi- 
ately caught up by Maritornes and her daughter, calling upon 
Heaven and all present for help ; and Sancho, seeing what was 
going on, excl .med, By the Lord, it is quite true what my 
master says a out the enchantments of this castle, for it is im- 
possible to li e an hour in peace in it ! ” 

Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixote, and to 
their mutual contentment made them relax the grip by which 
they held, the one the coat collar, the other the throat of his 
adversary ; for all this, however, the officers did not . cease 
to demand their prisoner and call on them to help, and deliver 
him over bound into their power, as was required for the 
service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on whose be- 
half they again demanded aid and assistance to effect the capt- 
ure of this robber and footpad of the highways and byways. 

Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said 
very calmly, Come now, base, ill-born brood ; call ye it high- 
way robbery to give freedom to those in bondage, to release 
the captives, to succor the miserable, to raise up the fallen, to 
relieve the needy ? Infamous beings, who by your vile grovel- 
ling intellects deserve that Heaven should not make known to 
you the virtue that lies in knight-errantry, or show you the sin 
and ignorance in which ye lie when ye refuse to respect the 
shadow, not to say the presence, of any knight-errant ! Come 
now ; band, not of officers, but of thieves ; footpads with the 
license of the Holy Brotherhood ; tell me who was the ignora- 
mus who signed a warrant of arrest against such a knight as I 
am ? Who was he that did not know that knights-errant are 
independent of all jurisdictions, that their law is their sword, 
their charter their prowess, and their edicts their will ? Who, 
I say again, was the fool that knows not that there are no 
letters patent of nobility that confer such privileges or exemp- 
tions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight, 
and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry ? What 


CHAPTER XLVL 


391 


knight-errant ever paid poll-tax, duty, queen’s pin-money, king’s 
dues, toll or ferry ? What tailor ever took payment of him 
for making his clothes ? What castellan that received him in 
his castle ever made him pay his shot ? ^ What king did not 
seat him at his table ? What damsel was not enamoured of 
him and did not yield herself up wholly to his will or pleas- 
ure ? And, lastly, what knight-errant has there been, is there, 
or will there ever be in the world, not bold enough to give, 
single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers 
of the Holy Brotherhood if they come in his way ? ” 


CHAPTEE XLVI. 

OF THE EXD OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS 
OF THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD ; AND OF THE GREAT FEROC- 
ITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE. 

While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate 
was endeavoring to persuade the officers that he was out of his 
senses, as they might perceive by his deeds and his words, 
and that they need not press the matter any further, for even 
if they arrested him and carried him off, they would have to 
release him by-and-by as a madman ; to which the holder of 
the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with inquiring 
into Don Quixote’s madness, but only to execute his superior’s 
orders, and that once taken they might let him go three hun- 
dred times if they liked. 

For all that,” said the curate, you must not take him 
away this time, nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be 
taken away.” 

In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote 
did such mad things, that the officers would have been more 
mad than he was if they had not perceived his want of wits, 
and so they thought it best to allow themselves to be pacified, 
and even to act as peacemakers between the barber and Sancho 
Panza, who still continued their altercation with much bitter- 
ness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the ques- 
tion by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if 
not perfectly contented, at least to some extent satisfied j for 
* Escote ; old French tscoi. 


392 


DON QUIXOTE. 


they changed the pack-saddles, but not the girths or head- 
stalls ; and as to Mainbrino’s helmet, the curate, under the 
rose and without Don Quixote’s knowing it, paid eight reals 
for the basin, and the barber executed a full receipt and en- 
gagement to make no further demand then or thenceforth for 
evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the most 
important and gravest, being settled, it only remained for the 
servants of Don Luis to consent that three of them should re- 
turn while one was left to accompany him whither Don Fer- 
nando desired to take him ; and good luck and better fortune, 
having already begun to solve difficulties and remove obstruc- 
tions in favor of the lovers and warriors of the inn, were 
pleased to persevere and bring everything to a happy issue ; 
for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished ; which gave 
Dona Clara such happiness that no one could have looked into 
her face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida, 
though she did not fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or 
gay without knowing why, as she watched and studied the 
various countenances, but particularly her Spaniard’s, whom 
she followed with her eyes and clung to with her soul. The 
gift and compensation which the curate gave the barber had 
not escaped the landlord’s notice, and he demanded Don Qui- 
xote’s reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his 
wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither 
Eocinante nor Sancho’s ass should leave the inn until he had 
been paid to the very last farthing. The curate settled all 
amicably, and Don Fernando paid ; though the judge had also 
very readily offered to pay the score ; and all became so peace- 
ful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded one of the dis- 
cord of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the 
peace and tranquillity of the days of Octavianus : ^ for all 
which it was the universal opinion that their thanks were due 
to the great zeal and eloquence of the curate, and to the unex- 
ampled generosity of Don Fernando. 

Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his 
squire’s as well as his own, Don Quixote considered that it 
would be advisable to continue the journey he had begun, and 
bring to a close that great adventure for which he had been 
called and chosen ; and with this high resolve he went and 
knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not allow him to 
utter a word until he had risen ; so to obey her he rose, and 
* i.e. Augustus. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 


393 


said, “ It is a common proverb, fair lady, that ^ diligence is the 
mother of good fortune,’ ^ and experience has often shown in 
important affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings 
the doubtful case to a successful termination ; but in nothing 
does this truth show itself more plainly than in war, where 
quickness and activity forestall the devices of the enemy, and 
win the victory before the foe has time to defend himself. All 
this I say, exalted and esteemed lady, because it seems to me 
that for us to remain any longer in this castle now is useless, 
and may be injurious to us in a way that we shall find out some 
day ; for who knows but that your enemy the giant may have 
learned by means of secret and diligent spies that I am going 
to destroy him, and if the opportunity be given him he may 
seize it to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or strongs 
hold, against which all my efforts and the might of my inde- 
fatigable arm may avail but little ? Therefore, lady, let us, as 
I say, forestall his schemes by our activity, and let us depart 
at once in quest of fair fortune ; for your highness is only kept 
from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in 
encountering your adversary.” 

Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly await- 
ing the reply of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding 
dignity and in a style adapted to Don Quixote’s own, replied 
to him in these words, give you thanks, sir knight, for 
the eagerness you, like a good knight to whom it is a nat- 
tiral obligation to succor the orphan and the needy, display 
to afford me aid in my sore trouble ; and Heaven grant that 
your wishes and mine may be realized, so that you may see 
that there are women in this world capable of gratitude ; as to 
my departure, let it be forthwith, for I have no will but yours ; 
dispose of me entirely in accordance with your good pleasure ; 
for she who has once intrusted to you the defence of her per- 
son, and placed in your hands the recovery of her dominions, 
must not think of offering opposition to that which your wis- 
dom may ordain.” 

On, then, in God’s name,” said Don Quixote ; for, when 
a lady humbles herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity 
of raising her up and placing her on the throne of her ances- 
tors. Let us depart at once, for the common saying that in 
delay there is danger,^ lends spurs to my eagerness to take the 
road ; and as neither Heaven has created nor hell seen any tha,t 
>Prov. 77. *Prov. 222. 


894 


DON QUIXOTE. 


can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and get 
ready thy ass and the queen’s palfrey, and let us take leave of 
the castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this very 
instant.” 

Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his 
head, Ah ! master, master, there is more mischief in the vil- 
lage than one hears of,^ begging all good bodies’ pardon.” 

What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the 
cities of the world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation ? ” 
said Don Quixote. 

If your worship is angry,” replied Sancho, I will hold 
my tongue and leave unsaid what, as a good squire, I am 
bound to say, and what a good servant should tell his master.” 

Say what thou wilt,” returned Don Quixote, provided thy 
words be not meant to work upon my fears ; for thou, when 
thou fearest, art behaving like thyself ; but I like myself, when 
I fear not.” 

It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,” 
said Sancho, but that I take it to be sure and certain that 
this lady, who calls herself queen of the great kingdom of 
Micomicon, is no more so than my mother; for, if she was 
what she says, she would not go rubbing noses with one that 
is here every instant and behind every door.” 

Dorothea turned red at Sancho’s words, for the truth was 
that her husband, Don Fernando, had now and then, when the 
others were not looking, gathered from her lips some of the 
reward his love had earned, and Sancho seeing this, had con- 
sidered that such freedom was more like a courtesan than a 
queen of a great kingdom ; she, however, being unable or not 
caring to answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he contin- 
ued, This I say, seilor, because, if after we have travelled 
roads and highways, and passed bad nights and worse days, 
one who is now enjoying himself in this inn is to reap the 
fruit of our labors, there is no need for me to be in a hurry to 
saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the pal- 
frey ; for it will be better for us to stay quiet, and let every 
jade mind her spinning,^ and let us go to dinner.’* 

Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he 
heard the audacious words of his squire ! So great was it, that 
in a voice inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, 

* Prov. 9. Generally mistranslated than is dreamt of,” as if it was 
suena instead of suena. ^ Prov. 196. 


CHAPTER XLVL 


395 


and eyes that flashed living fire, he exclaimed, Kascally 
clown, boorish, insolent, and ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, 
impudent backbiter and slanderer ! Hast thou dared to utter 
such words in my presence and in that of these illustrious 
ladies ? Hast thou dared to harbor such gross and shameless 
thoughts in thy muddled imagination ? Begone from my pres- 
ence, thou born monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, 
garner of knaveries, inventor of scandals, publisher of absurd- 
ities, enemy of the respect due to royal personages ! Begone, 
show thyself no more before me under pain of my wrath ; 
and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his cheeks, gazed 
around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his 
right foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in 
his heart ; and at his words and furious gestures Sancho was 
so scared and terrified that he would have been glad if the 
earth had opened that instant and swallowed him, and his only 
thought was to turn round and make his escape from the 
angry presence of his master. 

But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well un- 
derstood Don Quixote’s humor, said, to mollify his wrath, ‘‘ Be 
not irritated at the absurdities your good squire has uttered. 
Sir Knight of the Bueful Countenance, for perhaps he did not 
utter them without cause, and from his good sense and Chris- 
tian conscience it is not likely that he would bear false witness 
against any one. We may therefore believe, without any hesi- 
tation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this 
castle goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, 
Sancho, I say, may possibly have seen, through this diabolical 
medium, what he says he saw so much to the detriment of my 
modesty.” 

“ I swear by God Omnipotent,” exclaimed Don Quixote at 
this, your highness has hit the point ; and that some vile 
illusion must have come before this sinner of a Sancho, that 
made him see what it would have been impossible to see by any 
other means than enchantments ; for I know well enough, from 
the poor fellow’s goodness and harmlessness, that he is inca- 
pable of bearing false witness against anybody.” 

True, no doubt,” said Don Fernando, for which reason, 
Senor Don Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him 
to the bosom of your favor, sicut erat in prmcipio, before illu- 
sions of this sort had taken away his senses.” 

Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the 




DON^ QUIXOTE, 


curate went for Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling 
on his knees begged for the hand of his master, who having pre- 
sented it to him and allowed him to kiss it, gave him his bless- 
ing and said, Now, Sancho my son, thou wilt be convinced of 
the truth of what I have many a time told thee, that every 
thing in this castle is done by means of enchantment.” 

So it is, I believe,” said Sancho, except the affair of the 
blanket, which came to pass in reality by ordinary means.” 

Believe it not,” said Don Quixote, for had it been so, 
I would have avenged thee that instant, or even now ; but 
neither then nor now could I, nor have I seen any one upon 
whom to avenge thy wrong.” 

They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket 
was, and the landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho’s 
flights, at which they laughed not a little, and at which Sancho 
would have been no less out of countenance had not his master 
once more assured him it was all enchantment. For all that 
his simplicity never reached so high a pitch that he could per- 
suade himself it was not the plain and simple truth, without 
any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed 
by beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imagi- 
nary phantoms, as his master believed and protested. 

The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn ; 
and as it seemed to them time to depart, they devised a plan 
so that, without giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble 
of going back with Don Quixote to his village under pretence 
of restoring Queen Micomicona, the curate and the barber 
might carry him away with them as they proposed, and the 
curate be able to take his madness in hand at home ; and in 
pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of an 
ox-cart who happened to be passing that way to carry him 
after this fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with 
wooden bars, large enough to hold Don Quixote comfortably ; 
and then Don Fernando and his companions, the servants of 
Don Luis, and the officers of the Brotherhood, together with 
the landlord, by the directions and advice of the curate, cov- 
ered their faces and disguised themselves, some in one way, 
some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite different 
from the persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in pro- 
found silence they entered the room where he was asleep, 
taking his rest after the past frays, and advancing to where 
he was sleeping tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the 


CHAPTER XLVL 


397 


kind happening, they seized him fii*mly and bound him fast 
hand and foot, so that, when he awoke startled, he was unable 
to move, and could only marvel and wonder at the strange fig- 
ures he saw before him ; upon which he at once gave way to 
the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up before 
him, and took it into his head that all these shapes were phan- 
toms of the enchanted castle, and that he himself was unques- 
tionably enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself ; 
precisely what the curate, the concocter of the scheme, ex- 
pected would happen.^ Of all that were there Sancho was the 
only one who was at once in his senses and in his own proper 
character, and he, though he was within very little of sharing 
his master’s infirmity, did not fail to perceive who all these 
disguised figures were ; but he did not dare to open his lips 
until he saw what came of this assault and capture of his 
master ; nor did the latter utter a word, waiting to see the 
upshot of his mishap ; which was that, bringing in the cage, 
they shut him up in it and nailed the bars so firmly that they 
could not be easily burst open. They then took him on their 
shoulders, and as they passed out of the room an awful voice 
■ — as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle but the 
other, was able to make it — was heard to say, 0 Knight of 
the Kueful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou 
art placed afflict thee,- for this must needs be, for the more 
speedy accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great 
heart has engaged thee ; the which shall be accomplished when 
the raging Manchegan lion and the white Tobosan dove shall 
be linked together, having first humbled their haughty necks 
to the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from this marvellous 
union shall come forth to the light of the world brave whelps, 
that shall rival the ravening claws of their valiant father ; and 
this shall come to pass ere the pursuer of the flying nymph shall 
in his swift natural course have twice visited the starry signs. 
And thou, 0 most noble and obedient squire that ever bore 
sword at side, beard on face, or nose to smell with, be not dis- 
mayed or grieved to see the flower of knight-errantry carried 
away thus before thy very eyes ; for soon, if it so please the 
Kramer of the universe, thou shalt see thyself exalted to such 
a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and the promises 
which thy good master has made thee shall not prove false ; 

* This resembles the scene in the Morgante Maggiore (xii, 88), where 
Orlando is seized and bound by the pagans. 


398 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana,* 
that thy wages shall be paid thee as thou shalt see in due 
season. Follow then the footsteps of the valiant enchanted 
knight, for it is expedient that thou shouldst go to the destina- 
tion assigned to both of you ; and as it is not permitted to me 
to say more, God be with thee ; for I return to that place I wot 
of ; and as he brought the prophecy to a close he raised his 
voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a soft tone, 
that even those who knew it was all a joke were almost in- 
clined to take what they heard seriously. 

Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for 
he at once comprehended its meaning perfectly and perceived 
it was promised to him that he should see himself united in 
holy and lawful matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del To- 
boso, from whose blessed womb should proceed the whelps, his 
sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha ; and being thoroughly 
and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and with 
a deep sigh exclaimed, 0 thou, whoever thou art, who hast 
foretold me so much good, I implore of thee that on my part 
thou entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my in- 
terests, that he leave me not to perish in this captivity in 
which they are now carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled prom- 
ises so joyful and incomparable as those which have been now 
made me ; for, let this but come to pass, and I shall glory in 
the pains of my prison, find comfort in these chains wherewith 
they bind me, and regard this bed whereon they stretch me, 
not as a hard battlefield, but as a soft and happy nuptial 
couch; and touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my 
squire, I rely upon his goodness and rectitude that he will not 
desert me in good or evil fortune ; for if, by his ill luck or 
mine, it may not happen to be in my power to give him the 
island I have promised, or any equivalent for it, at least his 
wages shall not be lost ; for in my will, which is already made, I 
have declared the sum that shall be paid to him, measured, not 
by his many faithful services, but by the means at my dis- 
posal.” 

Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his 
hands, for being tied together, he could not kiss one ; and then 
the apparitions lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed 
it upon the ox-cart. 

' A name formed from " mentir,” to tell lies. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


399 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA 
MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH 
OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS. 

When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the 
cart in this way, he said, Many grave histories of knights- 
errant have I read ; but never yet have I read, seen, or heard 
of their carrying off enchanted knight s-errant in this fashion, 
or at the slow pace that these lazy, sluggish animals promise ; 
for they always take them away through the air with marvel- 
lous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a chariot 
of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the 
kind ; but to carry me off like this on an ox-cart ! By God, it 
puzzles me ! But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of 
our day take a different course from that of those in days gone 
by ; and it may be, too, that, as I am a new knight in the 
world, and the first to revive the already forgotten calling of 
knight-adventurers, they may have newly invented other kinds 
of enchantments and other modes of carrying off the enchanted. 
What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son ? ’’ 

I don’t know what to think,” answered Sancho, not being 
as well read as your worship in errant writings ; but for all 
that I venture to say and swear that these apparitions that are 
about us are not quite Catholic.” 

Catholic ! ” said Don Quixote. Father of me ! how can 
they be Catholic when they are all devils that have taken fan- 
tastic shapes to come and do this, and bring me to this condi- 
tion ? And if thou wouldst prove it, touch them, and feel 
them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of air, and no 
consistency except in appearance.” 

By God, master,” returned Sancho, I have touched them 
already ; and that devil, that goes about there so busily, has 
firm flesh, and another property very different from what I 
have heard say devils have, for by all accounts they all smell 
of brimstone and other bad smells; but this one smells of 
amber half a league off.” Sancho was here speaking of Don 
Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very likely 
perfumed as Sancho said. 

“ Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote ; 


400 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ for let me tell thee devils are crafty ; and even if they do 
carry odors about with them, they themselves have no smell, 
because they are spirits ; or, if they have any smell, they can 
not smell of anything sweet, but of something foul and fetid ; 
and the reason is that as they carry hell with them wherever 
they go, and can get no ease whatever from their torments, 
and as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and enjoy- 
ment, it is impossible that they can smell sweet ; if, then, this 
devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber, either 
thou art deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive thee by 
making thee fancy he is not a devil.” 

Such was the conversation that passed between master and 
man ; and Don Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho’s 
making a complete discovery of their scheme, towards which 
he had already gone some way, resolved to hasten their depart- 
ure, and calling the landlord aside, they directed him to saddle 
Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on Sancho’s ass, which he 
did with great alacrity. In the meantime the curate had made 
an arrangement with the officers that they should bear them 
company as far as his village, he paying them so much a day. 
Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of the bow of Eoci- 
nante’s saddle and the basin on the other, and by signs com- 
manded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante’s bridle, 
and at each side of the cart he placed two officers with their 
muskets ; ^ but before the cart was put in motion, out came the 
landlady and her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don Quixote 
farewell, pretending to weep with grief at his misfortune ; and 
to them Don Quixote said, ^^Weep not, good ladies, for all 
these mishaps are the lot of those who follow the profession I 
profess ; and if these reverses did not befall me I should not 
esteem myself a famous knight-errant ; for such things never 
happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody 
in the world thinks about them ; to valiant knights they do, 
for these are envied for their virtue and valor by many princes 
and other knights who compass the destruction of the worthy 
by base means. Nevertheless, virtue is of herself so mighty, 
that, in spite of all the magic that Zoroastes its first inventor 
knew, she will come victorious out of every trial, and shed her 
light upon the earth as the sun does upon the heavens. For- 

^ Here, for once, Hartzenbusch has overlooked an inconsistency. In 
chapter xlv. we were told the officers were three in number. Farther on 
it will be seen that they carried crossbows, not muskets. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


401 


give me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in aught 
offended you ; for intentionally and wittingly I have never 
done so to any ; and pray to God that he deliver me from this 
captivity to which some malevolent enchanter has consigned 
me; and should I find myself released therefrom, the favors 
that ye have bestowed upon me in this castle shall be held in 
memory by me, that I may acknowledge, recognize, and requite 
them as they deserve.’’ 

While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and 
Don Quixote, the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don 
Fernando and his companions, to the captain, his brother, and 
the ladies, now all made happy, and in particular to Dorothea 
and Luscinda. They all embraced one another, and promised 
to let each other know how things went with them, and Don 
Fernando directed the curate where to write to him, to tell him 
what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there was 
nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear, and 
that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he 
thought he would like to know, about his marriage, Zoraida’s 
baptism, Don Luis’s affair, and Luscinda’s return to her home. 
The curate promised to comply with his request carefully, and 
they embraced once more, and renewed their promises. 

The landlord approached the curate and handed him some 
papers, saying he had discovered them in the lining of the 
valise in which the novel of The Ill-advised Curiosity ” had 
been found, and that he might take them all away with him 
as their owner had not since returned; for, as he could not 
read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked him, 
and opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript 
the words, Novel of Kinconete and Cortadillo,” by which he 
perceived that it was a novel, and as that of The Ill-advised 
Curiosity ” had been good he concluded this would be so too, 
as they were both probably by the same author ; ^ so he kept 
it, intending to read it when he had an opportunity. He then 
mounted and his fri6nd the barber did the same, both masked, 
so as not to be recognized by Don Quixote, and set out fol- 
lowing in the rear of the cart. The order of march was this : 
first went the cart with the owner leading it; at each side of it 

* Rinconete y Cortadillo is the third of the Novelas Ejemplares pub- 
lished by Cervantes in 1613. From this we may assume that the Guriosa 
Impertinente was written about the same time, i.e. during his residence 
in Seville. 


VOL. I. — 26 


402 


DON QUIXOTE. 


marched the officers of the Brotherhood, as has been said, with 
their muskets ; then followed Sancho Panza on his ass, leading 
Bocinante by the bridle ; and behind all came the curate and 
the barber on their mighty mules, with faces covered, as afore- 
said, and a grave and serious air, measuring their pace to suit 
the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the 
cage, with his hands tied and his feet stretched out, leaning 
against the bars as silent and as patient as if he were a stone 
statue and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and silently they 
made, it might be, two leagues, until they reached a valley 
which the carter thought a convenient place for resting and 
feeding his oxen, and he said so to the curate, but the barber 
was of opinion that they ought to push on a little farther, as 
at the other side of a hill which appeared close by he knew 
there was a valley that had more grass and much better than 
the one where they proposed to halt ; and his advice was taken 
and they continued their journey. 

Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on 
behind them six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, 
who soon overtook them, for they were travelling, not at the 
sluggish, deliberate pace of oxen, but like men who rode canons’ 
mules, and in haste to take their noontide rest as soon as pos- 
sible at the inn which was in sight not a league off. The 
quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous saluta- 
tions were exchanged ; and one of the new comers, who was, in 
fact, a canon of Toledo and master of the others who accom- 
panied him, observing the regular order of the procession, the 
cart, the officers, Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber, 
and above all Don Quixote caged and confined, could not help 
asking what was the meaning of carrying the man in that 
fashion; though, from the badges of the officers, he already 
concluded that he must be some desperate highwayman or 
other malefactor whose punishment fell within the jurisdiction 
of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to whom he had 
put the question, replied, Let the gentleman himself tell you 
the meaning of his going this way, senor, for we do not know.” 

Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, Haply, 
gentlemen, you are versed and learned in matters of chivalry ? 
Because if you are I will tell you my misfortunes ; if not, there 
is no good in my giving myself the trouble of relating them ; ” 
but here the curate and the barber, seeing that the travellers 
were engaged in conversation with Don Quixote, came forward, 


CHAPTER XLYII. 


403 


in order to answer in such a way as to save their stratagem 
from being discovered. 

The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, In truth, brother, 
I know more about books of chivalry than I do about Villal- 
pando’s elements of logic ; ^ so if that be all, you may safely 
tell me what you please.” 

In God’s name, then, senor,” replied Don Quixote ; if 
that be so, I would have you know that I am held enchanted 
in this cage by the envy and fraud of wicked enchanters ; for 
virtue is more persecuted by the wicked than loved by the good. 
I am a knight-errant, and not one of those whose names Fame 
has never thought of immortalizing in her record, but of those 
who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magi- 
cians that Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists 
that Ethiopia ever produced, will place their names in the 
temple of immortality, to serve as examples and patterns for 
ages to come, whereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in 
which they must tread if they would attain the summit and 
crowning point of honor in arms.” 

What Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,” observed 
the curate, is the truth ; for he goes enchanted in this cart, 
not from any fault or sins of his, but because of the malevo- 
lence of those to whom virtue is odious and valor hateful. 
This, senor, is the Knight of the Eueful Countenance, if you 
have ever heard him named, whose valiant achievements and 
mighty deeds shall be written on lasting brass and imperish- 
able marble, notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to obscure 
them and malice to hide them.” 

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who 
was at liberty talk in such a strain he was ready to cross him- 
self in his astonishment, and could not make out what had 
befallen him ; and all his attendants were in the same state 
of amazement. 

At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear 
the conversation, said, in order to make everything plain. 
Well, sirs, you may like or dislike what I am going to say, 
but the fact of the matter is, my master, Don Quixote, is just 
as much enchanted as my mother. He is in his full senses, he 
eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like other men and as he 

* Suma de las Sumulas^ Alcala 1557, by Caspar Carillo de Villalpando, 
a theologian who distinguished himself for learning and eloquence at the 
Council of Trent. 


404 


DON QUIXOTE. 


had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that’s the case, 
what do they mean by wanting me to believe that he is en- 
chanted ? For I have heard many a one say that enchanted 
people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk ; and my master, if you 
don’t stop him, will talk more than thirty lawyers.” Then 
turning to the curate he exclaimed, And, senor curate, senor 
curate ! do you think I don’t know you ? Do you think I don’t 
guess and see the drift of these new enchantments ? Well, 
then, I can tell you I know you, for all your face is covered, 
and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide your 
tricks. After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and 
where there is niggardliness there can be no liberality. Ill be- 
tide the devil ! if it had not been for your worship my master 
would be married to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and 
I should be a count at least ; for no less was to be expected, as 
well from the goodness of my master, him of the Eueful 
Countenance, as from the greatness of my services. But I see 
now how true it is what they say in these parts, that the wheel 
of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel,^ and that those who 
were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my wife 
and children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect 
to see their father return to them a governor or viceroy of some 
island or kingdom, they will see him come back a horse-boy. 
I have said all this, senor curate, only to urge your paternity ^ 
to lay to your conscience your ill-treatment of my master ; and 
have a care that God does not call you to account in another 
life for making a prisoner of him in this way, and charge 
against you all the succors and good deeds that my lord Don 
Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up.” 

Trim those lamps there ! ” ® exclaimed the barber at this ; 
so you are of the same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho ? 
By God, I begin to see that you will have to keep him com- 
pany in the cage, and be enchanted like him for having caught 
some of his humor and chivalry. It was an evil hour when 
you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and that 
island you long so much for found its way into your head.” 

“ I am not with child by any one,” returned Sancho, nor 
am I a man to let myself be got with child, if it was by the 
King himself. Though I am poor I am an old Christian, and 

* Prov. 209. 

* A title sometimes given to ecclesiastics in lien of *' Reverence.” 

® Proverbial phrase — Adobadme esos candiles.” 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


405 


I owe nothing to nobody, and if I long for an island, other 
people long for worse. Each of us is the son of his own works ; 
and being a man I may come to be pope,^ not to say governor 
of an island, especially as my master may win so many that 
he will not know whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, 
master barber; for shaving is not everything, and there is 
some difference between Peter and Peter. ^ I say this because 
we all know one another, and it will not do to throw false dice 
with me ; ® and as to the enchantment of my master, God 
knows the truth ; leave it as it is ; it will only make it worse 
to stir it.’’ 

The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain 
speaking he should disclose what the curate and he himself 
were trying so hard to conceal ; and under the same apprehen- 
sion the curate had asked the canon to ride on a little in ad- 
vance, so that he might tell him the mystery of this man in 
the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The canon 
agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with 
attention to the account of the character, life, madness, and 
ways of Don Quixote, given him by the curate, who described 
to him briefly the beginning and origin of his craze, and told 
him the whole story of his adventures up to his being confined 
in the cage, together with the plan they had of taking him 
home to try if by any means they could discover a cure for his 
madness. The canon and his servants were surprised anew 
when the}^ heard Don Quixote’s strange story, and when it 
was finished he said, To tell the truth, senor curate, I for my 
part consider what they call books of chivalry to be mischiev- 
ous to the State ; and though, led by idle and false taste, I 
have read the beginnings of almost all that have been printed, 
I never could manage to read any one of them from beginning 
to end ; for it seems to me they are all more or less the same 
thing ; and one has nothing more in it than another ; this no 
more than that. And in my opinion this sort of writing and 
composition is of the same species as the fables they call the 
Milesian, nonsensical tales that aim solely at giving amuse- 
ment and not instruction, exactly the opposite of the apologue 
fables which amuse and instruct at the same time. And 
though it may be the chief object of such books to amuse, I 
do not know how they can succeed, when they are so full of 
such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels 
*Provs. 112 and 117. * Prov. 178. ^ Prov. 69. 


406 


DON QUIXOTE, 


must come from the beauty and harmony which it perceives 
or contemplates in the things that the eye or the imagination 
brings before it ; and nothing that has any ugliness or dispro- 
portion about it can give any pleasure. What beauty, then, 
or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of the whole 
to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of 
sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two 
halves of him as if he was an almond cake ? ^ And when they 
want to give us a picture of a battle, after having told us that 
there are a million of combatants on the side of the enemy, let 
the hero of the book be opposed to them, and we have per- 
force to believe, whether we like it or not, that the said knight 
wins the victory by the single might of his strong arm. And 
then, what shall we say of the facility with which a born 
queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some 
unknown wandering knight ? What mind, that is not wholly 
barbarous and uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how 
a great tower full of knights sails away across the sea like a 
ship with a fair wind, and will be to-night in Lombardy and 
to-morrow morning in the land of Prester John of the Indies, 
or some other that Ptolemy never described nor Marco Polo 
saw ? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the authors of 
books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are not 
bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is 
all the better the more it looks like truth, and gives the more 
pleasure the more probability ^ and possibility there is about 
it. Plots in fiction should be wedded to the understanding of 
the reader, and be constructed in such a way that, reconciling 
impossibilities, smoothing over difficulties, keeping the mind 
on the alert, they may surprise, interest, divert, and entertain, 
so that wonder and delight joined may keep pace one with the 
other ; all which he will fail to effect who shuns verisimilitude 
and truth to nature, wherein lies the perfection of writing. I 
have never yet seen any book of chivalry that puts together a 
connected plot complete in all its numbers, so that the middle 
agrees with the beginning, and the end with the beginning and 
middle ; on the contrary, they construct them with such a 
multitude of members that it seems as though they meant to 
produce a chimera or monster rather than a well-proportioned 

* Alluding to Belianis of Greece, who when only sixteen cut a knight 
in two at Persepolis. 

^ Literally. " the more of the doubtful,” meaning the more of that 
which is not manifestly impossible. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


407 


figure. And besides all this they are harsh in their style, 
incredible in their achievements, licentious in their amours, 
uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix in their battles, silly 
in their arguments, absurd in their travels, and, in short, 
wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which reason 
they deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth 
as a worthless breed.’^ 

The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was 
a man of sound understanding, and that there was good reason 
in what he said ; so he told him that, being of the same opinion 
himself, and bearing a grudge to books of chivalry, he had 
burned all Don Quixote’s, which were many ; and gave him an 
account of the scrutiny he had made of them, and of those he 
had condemned to the flames and those he had spared, with 
which the canon was not a little amused, adding that though 
he had said so much in condemnation of these books, still he 
found one good thing in them, and that was the opportunity 
they afforded to a gifted intellect for displaying itself ; for they 
presented a wide and spacious field over which the pen might 
range freely, describing shipwrecks, tempests, combats, battles, 
portraying a valiant captain with all the qualifications requisite 
to make one, showing him sagacious in foreseeing the wiles of 
the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or restrain his 
soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in biding his 
time as in pressing the attack ; now picturing some sad tragic 
incident, now some joyful and unexpected event ; here a beau- 
teous lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian 
knight, brave and gentle ; here a lawless, barbarous braggart ; 
there a courteous prince, gallant and gracious ; setting forth the 
devotion and loyalty of vassals, the greatness and generosity 
of nobles. “ Or again,” said he, the author may show him- 
self to be an astronomer, or a skilled cosmographer, or musician, 
or one versed in affairs of state, and sometimes he will have a 
chance of coming forward as a magician if he likes. He can 
set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of ^neas, the 
valor of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of 
Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, 
the boldness of Caesar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the 
fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all the 
faculties that serve to make an illustrious man perfect, now 
uniting them in one individual, again distributing them among 
many ; and if this be done with charm of style and ingenious 


408 


DON QUIXOTE. 


invention, aiming at the truth as much as possible, he will 
assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads that, when 
finished, will display such perfection and beauty that it will 
attain the worthiest object any writing can seek, which, as I 
said before, is to give instruction and pleasure combined ; for 
the unrestricted range of these books enables the author to 
show his powers, epic, lyric, tragic, or comic, and all the moods 
the sweet and winning arts of poesy and oratory are capable 
of ; for the epic may be written in prose just as well as in 
verse/’ 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OP THE BOOKS 
OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT. 

It is as you say, senor canon,” said the curate ; and for 
that reason those who have hitherto written books of the sort 
deserve all the more censure for writing without paying any 
attention to good taste or to the rules of art, by which they 
might guide themselves and become as famous in prose as the 
two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse.” 

I myself, at any rate,” said the canon, was once tempted 
to write a book of chivalry in which all the points I have 
mentioned were to be observed ; and if I must own the truth I 
have more than a hundred sheets written ; and to try if it came 
up to my own opinion of it, I showed them to persons who 
were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and intelligent 
men as well as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but 
the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all I obtained 
flattering approval ; nevertheless I proceeded no further with 
it, as well because it seemed to me an occupation inconsistent 
with my profession, as because I perceived that the fools are 
more numerous than the wise ; and, though it is better to be 
praised by the wise few than applauded ^ by the foolish many, 
I have no mind to submit myself to the stupid judgment of the 
silly public, to whom the reading of such books falls for the 
most part. 

* In the original it is hurlado^ " scoffed at,” which makes no sense. 
Hartzenbusch suggests vitoreado^ but I think alahado is the more likely 
word and suits the context better. 


CHAPTER XL VI I L 


409 


But what most of all made me hold my hand and even aban* 
don all idea of finishing it was an argument I put to myself 
taken from the plays that are acted now-ardays, which was in 
this wise : if those that are now in vogue, as well those that 
are pure invention as those founded on history, are, all or most 
of them, downright nonsense and things that have neither head 
nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with delight, and 
regards and cries them up as perfection when they are so far 
from it ; and if the authors who write them, and the players 
who act them, say that this is what they must be, for the pub- 
lic wants this and will have nothing else ; and that those that 
go by rule and work out a plot according to the laws of art will 
only find some half-dozen intelligent people to understand them, 
while all the rest remain blind to the merit of their composition ; 
and that for themselves it is better to get bread from the many 
than praise from the few ; then my book will fare the same 
way, after I have burnt off my eyebrows in trying to observe 
the principles I have spoken of, and I shall be ‘ the tailor of El 
Campillo/ ^ And though I have sometimes endeavored to con- 
vince actors that they are mistaken in this notion they have 
adopted, and that they would attract more people, and get more 
credit, by producing plays in accordance with the rules of art, 
than by absurd ones, they are so thoroughly wedded to their own 
opinion that no argument or evidence can wean them from it. 

I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fel- 
lows, ‘ Tell me, do you not recollect that a few years ago, there 
were three tragedies acted in Spain, written by a famous poet 
of these kingdoms, which were such that they filled all who 
heard them with admiration, delight, and interest, the ignorant 
as well as the wise, the masses as well as the higher orders, 
and brought in more money to the performers, these three alone, 
than thirty of the best that have been since produced ? ’ 

* Alluding to the proverb (216) El sastre del Campillo, que cosia de halde 
y ponia el hilo — ''The tailor of El Campillo, who stitched for nothing 
and found the thread.” In the original it is " del cantillo^" and the Mar- 
quis of Santillana gives the proverb in this form ; but in the Picara Justina^ 
in Quevedo, and most other authorities it is given as above. " Cantillo ” 
is unmeaning, while " Campillo, ” or " El Campillo ” is the name of nearly 
a score of places in Spain. Any one versed in proverbial literature will 
see that this is one of the class of quasi local proverbs to which so many of 
the Spanish belong, e. g. "the squire of Guadalajara,” "the abbot of Zar- 
zuela,” "the smith of Arganda,” "the doctors of Valencia,” and that pe- 
culiarly humorous one, which ought by right to be Scottish, " The piper of 
Bujalance, (who got) one maravedi to strike up and ten to leave off.” 


410 


DON QUIXOTE. 


doubt/ replied the actor in question, ^you mean the 
“ Isabella,” the Phyllis,” and the Alexandra.” ^ ^ 

< Those are the ones I mean,’ said I ; ^ and see if they did 
not observe the principles of art, and if, by observing them, 
they failed to show their superiority and please all the world ; 
so that the fault does not lie with the public that insists upon 
nonsense, but with those who don’t know how to produce 
something else. The Ingratitude Eevenged ” was not non- 
sense, nor was there any in The Numantia,” nor any to be 
found in “ The Merchant Lover,” nor yet in The Friendly 
Fair Foe,” ^ nor in some others that have been written by cer- 
tain gifted poets, to their own fame and renown, and to the 
profit of those that brought them out ; ’ some further remarks 
I added to these, with which, I think, I left him rather dumb- 
foundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could dis- 
abuse him of his error.” 

You have touched upon a subject, senor canon,” observed 
the curate here, that has awakened an old enmity I have 
against the plays in vogue at the present day, quite as strong 
as that which I bear to the books of chivalry ; for while the 
drama, according to Tully, should be the mirror of human life, 
the model of manners, and the image of the truth, those which 
are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense, models of 
folly, and images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can 
there be in connection with what we are now discussing than 
for an infant to appear in swaddling clothes in the first scene 
of the first act, and in the second a grown-up, bearded man ? 
Or what greater absurdity can there be than putting before us 
an old man as a swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a 
lackey using fine language, a page giving sage advice, a king 
plying as a porter, a princess who is a kitchen-maid ? And 
then what shall I say of their attention to the time in which 
the action they represent may or can take place, save that I 
have seen a play where the first act began in Europe, the 
second in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no doubt, had 
it been in four acts, the fourth would have ended in America, 
and so it would have been laid in all four quarters of the 
globe ? And if truth to life is the main thing the drama 

* By Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola. 

* La Ingratitud vtngada^ a comedy by Lope de Vega; La Numancia., 
a tragedy by Cervantes himself, first printed in 1784 ; El Mercader amante.^ 
a comedy by Caspar de Aguilar; and La Enemiga favorable., by the licen- 
tiate Francisco Tarraga. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 


411 


should keep in view, how is it possible for any average under* 
standing to be satisfied when the action is supposed to pass in 
the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal per- 
sonage in it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who 
entered J erusalem with the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, 
like Godfrey of Bouillon, there being years innumerable be- 
tween the one and the other ? or, if the play is based on fiction 
and historical facts are introduced, or bits of what occurred to 
different people and at different times mixed up with it, all, 
not only without any semblance of probability, but with obvious 
errors that from every point of view are inexcusable ? And 
the worst of it is, there are ignorant people who say that this 
is perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected refine- 
ment. And then if we turn to sacred dramas — what miracles 
they invent in them ! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, 
attributing to one saint the miracles of another ! And even 
in secular plays they venture to introduce miracles without 
any reason or object except that they think some such miracle, 
or transformation as they call it, will come in well to astonish 
stupid people and draw them to the play. All this tends to 
the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history, nay 
more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain ; for foreigners who 
scrupulously observe the laws of the drama ^ look upon us as 
barbarous and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and non- 
sense of the plays we produce. Nor will it be a sufficient 
excuse to say that the chief object well-ordered governments 
have in view when they permit plays to be performed in pub- 
lic, is to entertain the people with some harmless amusement 
occasionally, and keep it from those evil humors which idle- 
ness is apt to engender ; and that, as this may be attained by 
any sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down 
laws, or bind those who write or act them to make them as 
they ought to be made, since, as I say, the object sought for 
may be secured by any sort. To this I would reply that the 
same end would be, beyond all comparison, better attained by 
means of good plays than by those that are not so ; for after 
listening to an artistic and properly constructed play, the 
hearer will come away enlivened by the jests, instructed by 
the serious parts, full of admiration at the incidents, his wits 

' The foreigners Cervantes alludes to here could only have been the 
Italians, v^ho had made some efforts in the direction of dramatic propriety. 
There was no French stage at the time ; and the English certainly did no# 
"scrupulously observe” the laws he alludes to. 


412 


DON QUIXOTE, 


sharpened by the arguments, warned by the tricks, all the 
wiser for the examples, inflamed against vice, and in love with 
virtue ; for in all these ways a good play will stimulate the 
mind of the hearer, be he ever so boorish or dull ; and of all 
impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed with all 
these qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much more 
than one wanting in them, like the greater number of those 
which are commonly acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who 
write them to be blamed for this ; for some there are among 
them who are perfectly well aware of their faults, and know 
thoroughly what they ought to do ; but as plays have become 
a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the actors 
will not buy them unless they are after this fashion ; and so 
the poet tries to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor 
who is to pay him for his work. And that this is the truth 
may be seen by the countless plays that a most fertile wit of 
these kingdoms has written, with so much brilliancy, so much 
grace and gayety, such polished versification, such choice 
language, such profound reflections, and in a word, so rich in 
eloquence and elevation of style, that he has filled the world 
with his fame ; and yet, in consequence of his desire to suit the 
taste of the actors, they have not all, as some of them have, 
come as near perfection as they ought.^ Others write plays 
with such heedlessness that after they have been acted, the 
actors have to fly and abscond, afraid of being punished, as 
they often have been, for having acted something offensive to 
some king or other, or insulting to some noble family. All 
which evils, and many more that I say nothing of, would be 
removed if there were some intelligent and sensible person at 
the capital to examine all plays before they were acted, not 
only those produced in the capital itself, but all that were in- 

* The fertile wit was, of course, Lope de Vega, at whom, in particular, 
this criticism is aimed ; and Cervantes shows great adroitness in the mode 
in which he has conducted his attack. There is hardly anything, however, 
which he says that Lope does not admit with cynical candor in the Arte 
nuevo de hacer Comedias^ where he insists upon the right of the public to 
have nonsense if it prefers it, inasmuch as it pays. This chapter has a 
peculiar interest, not only as showing the views of Cervantes, but as fur- 
nishing an explanation of the bitter feeling with which he was unquestion- 
ably regarded by Lope and Lope’s school ; a feeling that found expression 
a few years later in the attack made upon him by Avellaneda. Cervantes 
himself shortly afterwards in his comedies violated nearly all the prin- 
ciples he lays down here, and in the second act of the Rufian Dichoso 
solemnly reads his recantation. Much of what he says here is almost 
identical with what Sir Philip Sidney had said in the Apologie for Poetrie, 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


413 


tended to be acted in Spain ; without whose approval, seal, and 
signature, no local magistracy should allow any play to be 
acted. In that case actors would take care to send their plays 
to the capital, and could act them in safety, and those who 
write them would be more careful and take more pains with 
their work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the strict 
examination of one who understood the matter ; and so good 
plays would be produced and the objects they aim at happily 
attained; as well the amusement of the people, as the credit of 
the wits of Spain, the interest and safety of the actors, and 
the saving of trouble in inflicting punishment on them. And 
if the same or some other person were authorized to examine 
the newly written books of chivalry, no doubt some would 
appear with all the perfections you have described, enriching 
our language with the gracious and precious treasure of elo- 
quence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the 
light of the new ones that would come out for the harmless 
entertainment, not merely of the idle but of the very busiest ; 
for the bow can not be always bent, nor can weak human nature 
exist without some lawful amusement.’’ 

The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their 
conversation, when the barber, coming forward, joined them, 
and said to the curate, This is the spot, senor licentiate, that 
I said was a good one for fresh and plentiful pasture for the 
oxen, while we take our noontide rest.” 

And so it seems,” returned the curate, and he told the 
canon what he proposed to do, on which he too made up his 
mind to halt with them, attracted by the aspect of the fair 
valley that lay before their eyes ; and to enjoy it as well as 
the conversation of the curate, to whom he had begun to take 
a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the doings of 
Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the 
inn, which was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables 
there might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the 
afternoon where he was ; to which one of his servants replied 
that the sumpter mule, which by this time ought to have 
reached the inn, carried provisions enough to make it un- 
necessary to get anything from the inn except barley. 

In that case,” said the canon, take all the beasts there, 
and make the sumpter mule come back.” 

While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could 
speak to his master without having the curate and the barber, 


414 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of whom he had his suspicions, present all the time, ap- 
proached the cage in which Don Quixote was placed, and said, 
Senor, to ease my conscience I want to tell you the state of 
the case as to your enchantment, and that is that these two 
here, with their faces covered, are the curate of our village 
and the barber ; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of 
carrying you olf in this fashion, out of pure envy because your 
worship surpasses them in doing famous deeds ; and if this be 
the truth it follows that you are not enchanted, but hood- 
winked and made a fool of. And to prove this I want to ask 
you one thing ; and if you answer me as I believe you will 
answer, you will be able to lay your finger on the trick, and 
you will see that you are not enchanted but gone wrong in 
your wits.’’ 

Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son,” returned Don 
Quixote, for I will satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. 
As to what thou sayest, that these who accompany us yonder 
are the curate and the barber, our neighbors and acquaint- 
ances, it is very possible that they may seem to be those same 
persons ; but that they are so in reality and in fact, believe it 
not on any account ; what thou art to believe and think is 
that, if they look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that 
those who have enchanted me have taken this shape and like- 
ness ; for it is easy for enchanters to take any form they please, 
and they may have taken those of our friends in order to 
make thee think as thou dost, and lead thee into a labyrinth of 
fancies from which thou wilt find no escape though thou hadst 
the cord of Theseus ; and they may also have done it to make 
me uncertain in my mind, and unable to conjecture whence 
this evil comes to me ; for if on the one hand thou dost tell 
me that the barber and curate of our village are here in com- 
pany with us, and on the other I find myself shut up in a 
cage, and know in my heart that no power on earth that was 
not supernatural would have been able to shut me in, what 
wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment 
is of a sort that transcends all I have ever read of in all the 
histories that deal with knights-errant that have been en- 
chanted ? So thou mayst set thy mind at rest as to the idea 
that they are what thou sayest, for they are as much so as 1 
am a Turk. But touching thy desire to ask me something, 
say on, and I will answer thee, though thou shouldst ask ques- 
tions from this till to-morrow morning.” 


CHAPTER XL VI I L 


415 


May Our Lady be good to me ! ” said Sancho, lifting up bis 
voice ; “ and is it possible that your worship is so thick of skull 
and so short of brains that you cannot see that what I say is 
the simple truth, and that malice has more to do with your im- 
prisonment and misfortune than enchantment ? But as it is 
so, I will prove plainly to you that you are not enchanted. 
Now tell me, so may God deliver you from this affliction, and 
so may you find yourself when you least expect it in the arms 
of my lady Dulcinea ” — 

Leave off conjuring me,’^ said Don Quixote, “ and ask what 
thou wouldst know ; I have already told thee I will answer 
with all possible precision.^’ 

That is what I want,’’ said Sancho ; and what I would 
know, and have you tell me without adding or leaving out any- 
thing, but telling the whole truth as one expects it to be told, 
and as it is told, by all who profess arms, as your worship pro- 
fesses them, under the title of knights-errant ” — 

I tell thee I will not lie in any particular,” said Don 
Quixote : finish thy question ; for in truth thou weariest me 
with all these asseverations, requirements, and precautions, 
Sancho.” 

‘^Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master,” 
said Sancho ; and so, because it bears upon what we are talk- 
ing about, I would ask, speaking with all reverence, whether 
since your worship has been shut up and, as you think, en- 
chanted in this cage, you have felt any desire or inclination to 
go anywhere, as the saying is ? ” 

I do not understand ‘ going anywhere,’ ” said Don Quixote ; 
explain thyself more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have 
me give an answer to the point.” 

Is it possible,” said Sancho, that your worship does not 
understand ‘ going anywhere ’ ? Why, the schoolboys know 
that from the time they were babes. Well then, you must 
know I mean have you had any desire to do what can not be 
avoided ? ” 

Ah ! now I understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
yes, often, and even this minute j get me out of this strait, or 
all will not go right.” 


416 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO 
PANZO HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE. 

Aha, I have caught you,^’ said Sancho ; this is what in 
my heart and soul I was longing to know. Come now, senor, 
can you deny what is commonly said around us, when a person 
is out of humor, ‘ I don’t know what ails so-and-so, that he 
neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor gives a proper answer 
to any question ; one would think he was enchanted ’ ? From 
which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat, or drink, 
or sleep, or do any of the natural acts I am speaking of — that 
such persons are enchanted ; but not those that have the desire 
your worship has, and drink when drink is given them, and 
eat when there is anything to eat, and answer every question 
that is asked them.” 

What thou sayest is true, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote ; 
but I have already told thee there are many sorts of enchant- 
ments, and it may be that in the course of time they have been 
changed one for another, and that now it may be the way with 
enchanted people to do all that I do, though they did not do so 
before ; so it is vain to argue or draw inferences against the 
usage of the time. I know and feel that I am enchanted, and 
that is enough to ease my conscience ; for it would weigh 
heavily on it if I thought that I was not enchanted, and that 
in a faint-hearted and cowardly way I allowed myself to lie in 
this cage, defrauding multitudes of the succor I might afford 
to those in need and distress, who at this very moment may be 
in sore want of my aid and protection.” 

Still for all that,” replied Sancho, I say that, for your 
greater and fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship 
were to try to get out of this prison (and I promise to do all in 
my power to help, and even to take you out of it), and see if 
you could once more mount your good Rocinante, who seems 
to be enchanted too, he is so melancholy and dejected; and 
then we might try our chance in looking for adventures again ; 
and if we have no luck there will be time enough to go back 
to the cage ; in which, on the faith of a good and loyal squire, 
I promise to shut myself up along with your worship, if so be 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


417 


you are so unfortunate, or I so stupid, as not to be able to carry 
out my plan/^ 

I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho,’’ said Don 
Quixote, and when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my 
release I will obey thee absolutely ; but thou wilt see, Sancho, 
how mistaken thou art in thy conception of my misfortune.’’ 

The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their 
conversation till they reached the place where the curate, the 
canon, and the barber, who had already dismounted, were wait- 
ing for them. The carter at once unyoked the oxen and left 
them to roam at large about the pleasant green spot, the fresh- 
ness of which seemed to invite, not enchanted people like Don 
Quixote, but wide-awake, sensible folk like his squire, who 
begged the curate to allow his master to leave the cage for a 
little ; for if they did not let him out, the prison might not be 
as clean as the propriety of such a gentleman as his master re- 
quired. The curate understood him, and said he would very 
gladly comply with his request, only that he feared his master, 
finding himself at liberty, would take to his old courses and 
make off where nobody could ever find him again. 

“ I will answer for his riot running away,” said Sancho. 

And I for everything,” said the canon, especially if he 
gives me his word as a knight not to leave us without our 
consent.” 

Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said . he would 
give it ; and that moreover one who was enchanted as he was 
could not do as he liked with himself ; for he who had en- 
chanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three 
ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back dy- 
ing ; and that being so, they might as well release him, particu- 
larly as it would be to the advantage of all ; for, if they did 
not let him out, he protested he would be unable to avoid 
offending their nostrils unless they kept their distance. 

The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, 
and on his word and promise they unbound him, and rejoiced 
beyond measure he was to find himself out of the cage. The 
first thing he did was to stretch himself all over, and then he 
went to where Eocinante was standing and giving him a couple 
of slaps on the haunches said, “ I still trust in God and in his 
blessed mother, 0 flower and mirror of steeds, that we shall 
soon see ourselves, both of us, as we wish to be, thou with thy 
master on thy back, and T mounted upon thee, following the 
VoL. I. — 27 


418 


DON QUIXOTE, 


calling for which God sent me into the world.’^ And so say- 
ing, accompanied by Sancho, he withdrew to a retired spot, 
from which he came back much relieved and more eager than 
ever to put his squire’s scheme into execution. 

The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary 
nature of his madness, and that in all his remarks and replies 
he should show such excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups, 
as has been already said, when the subject of chivalry was 
broached. And so, moved by compassion, he said to him, as 
they all sat on the green grass awaiting the arrival of the pro- 
visions, Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle 
reading of books of chivalry can have had such an effect on 
your worship as to upset your reason so that you fancy your- 
self enchanted, and the like, all as far from the truth as false- 
hood itself is ? How can there be any human understanding 
that can persuade itself there ever was all that infinity of 
Amadises in the world, or all that multitude of famous knights, 
all those emperors of Trebizond, all those Felixmartes of 
Hircania, all those palfreys, and damsels-errant, and serpents, 
and monsters, and giants, and marvellous adventures, and 
enchantments of every kind, and battles, and prodigious en- 
counters, splendid costumes, love-sick princesses, squires made 
counts, droll dwarfs, love-letters, billings and cooings, swash- 
buckler women,^ and, in a word, all that nonsense the books of 
chivalry contain ? For myself, I can only say that when I 
read them, so long as I do not stop to think that they are all 
lies and frivolity, they give me a certain amount of pleasure ; 
but when I come to consider what they are, I fling the very 
best of them at the wall, and would fling it into the fire if there 
were one at hand, as richly deserving such punishment as 
cheats and impostors out of the range of ordinary toleration, 
and as founders of new sects and modes of life, and teachers 
that lead the ignorant public to believe and accept as truth all 
the folly they contain. And such is their audacity, they even 
dare to unsettle the wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence, 
as is shown plainly by the way they have served your worship, 
when they have brought you to such a pass that you have to 
be shut up in a cage and carried on an ox-cart as one would 
carry a lion or a tiger from place to place to make money by 
showing it. Come, Senor Don Quixote, have some compassion 

•e.g. Bradamante, Marfisa, and Antea, in the Orlando and Morgante 
Maggiore. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


419 


for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense, and make 
use of the liberal share of it that Heaven has been pleased to 
bestow upon you, employing your abundant gifts of mind in 
some other reading that may serve to benefit your conscience 
and add to your honor. And if, still led away by your natural 
bent, you desire to read books of achievements and of chivalry, 
read the Book of Judges in the Holy Scriptures, for there you 
will find grand reality, and deeds as true as they are heroic. 
Lusitania had a Viriatus, Kome a Caesar, Carthage a Hannibal, 
Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan Gonzalez, Valen- 
cia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a 
Diego Garcia de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de Vargas, 
Toledo a Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon,^ to read of 
whose valiant deeds will entertain and instruct the loftiest 
minds and fill them with delight and wonder. Here, Senor 
Don Quixote, will be reading worthy of your sound under- 
standing ; from which you will rise learned in history, in love 
with virtue, strengthened in goodness, improved in manners, 
brave without rashness, prudent without cowardice ; and all 
to the honor of God, your own advantage and the glory of La 
Mancha, whence, I am informed, your worship derives your 
birth and origin.’’ 

Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the 
canon’s words, and when he found he had finished, after re- 
garding him for some time, he replied to him, It appears to 
me, gentle sir, that your worship’s discourse is intended to 
persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in the 
world, and that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, mis- 
chievous, and useless to the State, and that I have done wrong 
in reading them, and worse in believing them, and still worse 
in imitating them, when I undertook to follow the arduous 
calling of knight-errantry which they set forth ; for you deny 

1 Count Fernan Gonzalez of Castile, the hero of many ballads, flourished 
in the tenth century ; for Gonzalo Fernandez, or Hernandez, and Diego 
Garcia de Paredes see notes to chapter xxxii. : Garcia Perez de Vargas is 
the hero of more than one ballad, but from the mention of Jerez it may he 
that Cervantes meant Diego Perez de Vargas, who, at the siege of Jerez, 
performed the feat that got him the name of the Pounder. (See chapter 
viii.) Garcilaso is not the poet but an ancestor of his, known as " el del 
Ave Maria,” from having slain at the battle of the Salado a Moor who 
appeared with a label bearing the words "Ave Maria” tied to his horse’s 
tail; an exploit generally said to have been performed at Granada. Don 
Manuel Ponce de Leon was a knight of the time of Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella, who figures in the ballads of the Siege of Granada ; for him see 
note to chapter xvii. Part II. 


DON QUIXOTE, 




that there ever were Amadises of Gaul or of Greece, or any 
other of the knights of whom the books are full/^ 

It is all exactly as you state it,” said the canon ; to which 
Don Quixote returned, “ You also went on to say that books of 
this kind had done me much harm, inasmuch as they had up- 
set my senses, and shut me up in a cage, and that it would be 
better for me to reform and change my studies, and read other 
truer books which would afford more pleasure and instruction.” 

“ Just so,” said the canon. 

Well then,” returned Don Quixote, to my mind it is you 
who are the one that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you 
have ventured to utter such blasphemies against a thing so 
universally acknowledged and accepted as true that whoever 
denies it, as you do, deserves the same punishment which you 
say you inflict on the books that irritate you when you read 
them. For to try to persuade anybody that Amadis, and all the 
other knights-adventurers with whom the books are filled, never 
existed, would be like trying to persuade him that the sun does 
not yield light, or ice cold, or earth nourishment. What wit 
in the world can persuade another that the story of the Princess 
Floripes and Guy of Burgundy is not true, or that of Fierabras 
and the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of 
Charlemagne ? ^ For by all that is good it is as true as that 
it is daylight now ; and if it be a lie, it must be a lie too that 
there was a Hector, or Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve 
Peers of France, or Arthur of England, who still lives changed 
into a raven, and is unceasingly looked for in his kingdom. 
One might just as well try to make out that the history of 
Guarino Mezquino,^ or of the quest of the Holy Grail, is false, 
or that the loves of Tristram and the Queen Yseult are 
apocryphal, as well of those of Guinevere and Lancelot, 
when there are persons who can almost remember having seen 
the Dame Quintanona, who was the best cup-bearer in Great 
Britain. And so true is this, that I recollect a grandmother of 
mine on the father’s side, whenever she saw any dame in a 

* The Princess Floripes was the sister of Fierabras, and wife of Guy 
of Burgundy, a nephew of Charlemagne. The bridge of Mantible, re- 
ferred to in the History of Charlemagne, was defended by the giant 
Galafre supported by the Turks, but carried by Charlemagne with the 
help of Fierabras. The Estremaduran peasants have given the name to 
the ruins of the old Roman bridge over the Tagus at Alconetar, north of 
Caceres. 

* A romance of the Charlemagne series, originally written in Italian, 
but translated into Spanish in 1527. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


421 


venerable hood, used to say to me, ‘ Grandson, that one is like 
Dame Quintanona ; ^ from which I conclude that she must 
have known her, or at least had managed to see some portrait 
of her. Then who can deny that the story of Pierres and the 
fair Magalona ^ is true, when even to this day may be seen in 
the king’s armory the pin with which the valiant Pierres 
guided the wooden horse he rode through the air, and it is a 
trifle bigger than the pole of a cart ? And alongside of the 
pin is Babieca’s saddle, and at Eoncesvalles there is Boland’s 
horn, as large as a large beam ; ^ whence we may infer that 
there were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres, and a Cid, and other 
knights like them, of the sort people commonly call advent- 
urers. Or perhaps I shall be told, too, that there was no such 
knight-errant as the valiant Lusitanian Juan de Merlo, who 
went to Burgundy and in the city of Arras fought with the 
famous lord of Charny, Mosen Pierres by name, and afterwards 
in the city of Basle with Mosen Enrique de Bemestan, coming 
out of both encounters covered with fame and honor ; ^ or ad- 
ventures and challenges achieved and delivered, also in Bur- 
gundy, by the valiant Spaniards Pedro Barba and Gutierre 
Quixada (of whose family I come in the direct male line), when 
they vanquished the sons of the Count of San Polo. I shall 
be told, too, that Don Fernando de Guevara did not go in quest 
of adventures to Germany, where he engaged in combat with 
Micer George, a knight of the house of the Duke of Austria.'* 
I shall be told that the jousts of Suero de Quinones, him of the 
‘ Paso,’ ® and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces ® against the 

* The history of Pierres and Magalona is a Proven 9 al romance written 
in the twelfth century by Bernardo Treviez, and translated into Spanish 
apparently as early as 1519. 

’ The " dread horn of Roland,” Olifant, was, in fact, an elephant’s tusk. 

® Juan de Merlo was a Portuguese knight in the reign of John II. of Cas- 
tile, whose deeds are celebrated by Juan de Mena in the Laherinto 199) . 

* Fernando de Guevara was another knight of the time of John II. 

^ The " Paso Honroso ” was one of the most famous feats of chivalry 
of the Middle Ages. Suero de Quinones, a knight of Leon, with nine 
others, undertook in 1434 to hold the bridge of Orbigo, near Astorga, 
against all comers for thirty days. Each was to break three lances with 
every gentleman who presented himself. There were 727 encounters and 
166 lances broken. An account of it was written by a contemporary, Pero 
Rodriguez de Lena, secretary of John II., which was afterwards re-edited 
by Juan de Pineda, and printed at Salamanca in 1588 under the title of 
Libro del Paso Honroso. It is appended to the Cronica de Alvaro de 
Luna., Madrid, 1784. 

® A knight of Navarre mentioned in the Cronica of John II. and in 
Zurita’s Annals of Aragon. 


422 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Castilian knight, Don Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mock* 
eries ; as well as many other achievements of Christian knights 
of these and foreign realms, which are so authentic and true, 
that, I repeat, he who denies them must be totally wanting in 
reason and good sense.’’ 

The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and 
fiction Don Quixote uttered, and to see how well acquainted 
he was with everything relating or belonging to the achieve- 
ments of his knight-errantry ; so he said in reply, I can not 
deny, Senor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in what you 
say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant ; and I 
am willing to grant too that the Twelve Peers of Prance ex- 
isted, but I am not disposed to believe that they did all the 
things that the Archbishop Turpin relates of them.^ For the 
truth of the matter is they were knights chosen by the kings 
of France, and called ^ Peers ’ because they were all equal in 
worth, rank, and prowess (at least if they were not they ought 
to have been), and it was a kind of religious order like those 
of Santiago and Calatrava in the present day, in which it is 
assumed that those who take it are valiant knights of distinc- 
tion and good birth ; and just as we say now a knight of St. 
John, or of Alcantara, they used to say then a Knight of the 
Twelve Peers,^ because twelve equals were chosen for the 
military order. That there was a Cid, as well as a Bernardo 
del Carpio, there can be no doubt ; but that they did the deeds 
people say they did, I hold to be very doubtful.^ In that 
other matter of the pin of Count Pierres that you speak of, 
and say is near Babieca’s saddle in the Armory, I confess my 
sin ; for I am either so stupid or so short-sighted, that, though 
I have seen the saddle, I have never been able to see the pin, 
in spite of it being as big as your worship says it is.” 

For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt,” 
said Don Quixote ; and more by token they say it is enclosed 
in a sheath of cowhide to keep it from rusting.” 

All that may be,” replied the canon ; but, by the orders I 

* See note on Turpin, chapter vii. 

2 No such title as Knight of the Twelve Peers ever existed. 

^ With regard to the Cid the canon is quite right : there is no historical 
foundation for three-fourths of the achievements attributed to him by the 
ballads and cronicas. As to Bernardo del Carpio, there may be, of course, 
some nucleus of fact round which the legends have clustered, but that is 
all that can be said for his existence. The saddle of the Cid is not now 
among the treasures of the Armeria at Madrid, if indeed it ever was. 


CHAPTER L, 


423 


have received, I do not remember seeing it. However, grant 
ing it is there, that is no reason why I am bound to believe the 
stories of all those Amadises and of all that multitude of knights 
they tell us about, nor is it reasonable that a man like your wor- 
ship, so worthy, and with so many good qualities, and endowed 
with such a good understanding, should allow himself to be 
persuaded that such wild crazy things as are written in those 
absurd books of chivalry are really true.’' 


CHAPTER L. 

OP THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE 
CANON HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS. 

A GOOD joke, that ! ” returned Don Quixote. Books that 
have been printed with the king’s license, and with the appro- 
bation of those to whom they have been submitted, and read 
with universal delight, and extolled by great and small, rich 
and poor, learned and ignorant, gentle and simple, in a word by 
people of every sort, of whatever rank or condition they may 
be — that these should be lies ! And above all when they carry 
such an appearance of truth with them ; for they tell us the 
father, mother, country, kindred, age, place, and the achieve- 
ments, step by step, and day by day, performed by such and 
such a knight or knights ! Hush, sir ; utter not such blasphemy ; 
trust me I am advising you now to act as a sensible man should ; 
only read them, and you will see the pleasure you will derive 
from them. Eor, come, tell me, can there be anything more 
delightful than to see, as it were, here now displayed before us 
a vast lake of bubbling pitch with a host of snakes and serpents 
and lizards, and ferocious and terrible creatures of all sorts 
swimming about in it, while from the middle of the lake there 
comes a plaintive voice saying : ^ Knight, whosoever thou art 
who beholdest this dread lake, if thou wouldst win the prize 
that lies hidden beneath these dusky waves, prove the valor of 
thy stout heart and cast thyself into the midst of its dark burn- 
ing waters, else thou shalt not be worthy to see the mighty 
wonders contained in the seven castles of the seven Fays that 
lie beneath this black expanse ; ’ and then the knight, almost 
ere the awful voice has ceased, without stopping to consider, 


424 


DON QUIXOTE. 


without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is ex- 
posing himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of 
his massive armor, commending himself to God and to his lady, 
plunges into the mist of the boiling lake, and when he little 
looks for it, or knows what his fate is to be, he finds himself 
among flowery meadows, with which the Elysian fields are not 
to be compared. The sky seems more transparent there, and 
the sun shines with a strange brilliancy, and a delightful grove 
of green leafy trees presents itself to the eyes and charms the 
sight with its verdure, while the ear is soothed by the sweet 
untutored melody of the countless birds of gay plumage that 
flit to and fro among the interlacing branches. Here he sees a 
brook whose limpid waters, like liquid crystal, ripple over fine 
sands and white pebbles that look like sifted gold and purest 
pearls. There he perceives a cunningly wrought fountain of 
many-colored jasper and polished marble ; here another of 
rustic fashion where the little mussel-shells and the spiral white 
and yellow mansions of the snail disposed in studious disorder, 
mingled with fragments of glittering crystal and mock emeralds, 
make up a work of varied aspect, where art, imitating nature, 
seems to have outdone it. Suddenly there is presented to his 
sight a strong castle or gorgeous palace with walls of massy 
gold, turrets of diamond and gates of jacinth; in short, so 
marvellous is its structure that though the materials of which 
it is built are nothing less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, 
pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workmanship is still more rare. 
And after having seen all this, what can be more charming 
than to see how a bevy of damsels comes forth from the gate of 
the castle in gay and gorgeous attire, such that, were I to set 
myself now to depict it as the histories describe it to us, I 
should never have done ; and then how she who seems to be 
the first among them all takes the bold knight who plunged 
into the boiling lake by the hand, and without addressing a 
word to him leads him into the rich palace or castle, and strips 
him as naked as when his mother bore him, and bathes him in 
lukewarm water, and anoints him all over with sweet-smelling 
unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal, all 
scented and perfumed, while another damsel comes and throws 
over his shoulders a mantle which is said to be worth at the very 
least a city, and even more ? How charming it is, then, when 
they tell us how, after all this, they lead him to another cham- 
ber where he finds the tables set out in such style that he is 


CHAPTER L. 


425 


filled with amazement and wonder ; to see how they pour out 
water for his hands distilled from amber and sweet-scented 
flowers ; how they seat him on an ivory chair ; to see how the 
damsels wait on him all in profound silence ; how they bring 
him such a variety of dainties so temptingly prepared that the 
appetite is at a loss which to select ; to hear the music that re- 
sounds while he is at table, by whom or whence produced he 
knows not. And then when the repast is over and the tables 
removed, for the knight to recline in the chair, picking his 
teeth perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any 
of the others, to enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and 
seat herself by his side, and begin to tell him what the castle 
is, and how she is held enchanted there, and other things that 
amaze the knight and astonish the readers who are perusing his 
history. But I will not expatiate any further upon this, as it 
may be gathered from it that whatever part of whatever history 
of a knight-errant one reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, 
with delight and wonder ; and take my advice, sir, and, as I said 
before, read these books and you will see how they will banish 
any melancholy you may feel and raise your spirits should they 
be depressed. For myself 1 can say that since I have been a 
knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, well-bred, 
magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have 
learned to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments ; 
and though it be such a short time since I have seen myself 
shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope by the might of my 
arm, if Heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not, to see myself 
king of some kingdom where I may be able to show the grati- 
tude and generosity that dwell in my heart ; for by my faith, 
senor, the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue 
of generosity to any one, though he may possess it in the high- 
est degree ; and gratitude that consists of disposition only is a 
dead thing, just as faith without works is dead. For this 
reason I should be glad were fortune soon to offer me some 
opportunity of making myself an emperor, so as to show my 
heart in doing good to my friends, particularly to this poor 
Sancho Panza, my squire, who is the best fellow in the world ; 
and I would gladly give him a county I have promised him this 
ever so long, only that I am afraid he has not the capacity to 
govern his realm.’’ 

Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and said 
to him, Strive hard you, Senor Don Quixote, to give me that 


426 


DON QUIXOTE. 


county so often promised by you and so long looked for by me, 
for I promise you there will be no want of capacity in me to 
govern it ; and even if there is, I have heard say there are men 
in the world who farm seigniories, paying so much a year, and 
they themselves taking charge of the government, while the 
lord, with his legs stretched out, enjoys the revenue they pay 
him, without troubling himself about anything else. That’s 
what I ’ll do, and not stand haggling over trifles, but wash my 
hands at once of the whole business, and enjoy my rents like a 
duke, and let things go their own way.” 

That, brother Sancho,” said the canon, only holds good 
as far as the enjoyment of the revenue goes ; but the lord of 
the seigniory must attend to the administration of justice, and 
here capacity and sound judgment come in, and above all a 
firm determination to find out the truth ; for if this be wanting 
in the beginning, the middle and the end will always go wrong ; 
and God as commonly aids the honest intentions of the simple 
as he frustrates the evil designs of the crafty.” 

I don’t understand those philosophies,” returned Sancho 
Panza ; all I know is I would I had the county as soon as I 
shall know how to govern it ; for I have as much soul as an- 
other, and as much body as any one, and I shall be as much 
king of my realm as any other of his ; and being so I should 
do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and 
pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content 
he has nothing more to. desire, and when one has nothing more 
to desire there is an end of it ; so let the county come, and God 
be with you, and let us see one another, as one blind man said 
to the other.” 

That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho,” said 
the canon ; but for all that there is a good deal to be said on 
this matter of counties.” 

To which Don Quixote returned, I know not what more 
there is to be said ; ^ I only guide myself by the example set 
me by the great Amadis of Gaul, when he made his squire count 
of the Insula Firme ; and so, without any scruples of conscience, 
I can make a count of Sancho Panza, for he is one of the best 
squires that ever knight-errant had.” 

The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if 
nonsense be capable of method) that Don Quixote uttered, at 

* In laCuesta’s third edition of 1608 a passage is inserted here for which 
there is neither authority nor necessity. 


CHAPTER L. 


427 


the way in which he had described the adventure of the knight 
of the lake, at the impression that the deliberate lies of the 
books he read had made upon him, and lastly he marvelled at 
the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly to obtain the 
county his master had promised him. 

By this time the canon’s servants, who had gone to the inn 
to fetch the sumpter mule, had returned, and making a carpet 
and the green grass of the meadow serve as a table, they 
seated themselves in the shade of some trees and made their 
repast there, that the carter might not be deprived of the ad- 
vantage of the spot, as has been already said. As they were 
eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a 
bell that seemed to come from among some brambles and thick 
bushes that were close by, and the same instant they observed 
a beautiful goat, spotted all over black, white, and brown, 
spring out of the thicket with a goatherd after it, calling to it 
and uttering the usual cries to make it stop or turn back to 
the fold. The fugitive goat, scared and frightened, ran 
towards the company as if seeking their protection and then 
stood still, and the goatherd coming up seized it by the horns 
and began to talk to it as if it were possessed of reason and 
understanding : Ah wanderer, wanderer, Spotty, Spotty ; 

how have you gone limping all this time ? What wolves have 
frightened you, my daughter ? Won’t you tell me what is the 
matter, my beauty ? But what else can it be except that you 
are a she, and can not keep quiet ? A plague on your humors 
and the humors of those you take after ! Come back, come 
back, my darling ; and if you will not be so happy, at any rate 
you will be safe in the fold or with your companions ; for if 
you who ought to keep and lead them, go wandering astray in 
this fashion, what will become of them ? ” 

The goatherd’s talk amused all who heard it, but especially 
the canon, who said to him, As you live, brother, take it 
easy, and be not in such a hurry to drive this goat back to the 
fold; for, being a female, as you say, she will follow her 
natural instinct in spite of all you can do to prevent it. Take 
this morsel and drink a sup, and that will soothe your irrita- 
tion, and in the mean time the goat will rest herself,” and so 
saying, he handed him the loins of a cold rabbit on a fork. 

The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed 
himself, and then said, I should be sorry if your worships 
were to take me for a simpleton for having spoken so seriously 


428 


QUIXOTE. 


as I did to this animal ; but the truth is there is a certain 
mystery in the words I used. I am a clown, but not so much 
of one but that I know how to behave to men and to beasts.’* 

That I can well believe,” said the curate, for I know 
already by experience that the woods breed men of learning, 
and shepherds’ huts harbor philosophers.” 

At all events, sefior,” returned the goatherd, “ they shelter 
men of experience ; and that you may see the truth of this and 
grasp it, though I may seem to put myself forward without 
being asked, I will, if it will not tire you, gentlemen, and you 
will give me your attention for a little, tell you a true story 
which will confirm this gentleman’s words (and he pointed to 
the curate) as well as my own.” 

To this Don Quixote replied, Seeing that this affair has a 
certain color of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will 
hear you most gladly, and so will all these gentlemen, from 
the high intelligence they possess and their love of curious 
novelties that interest, charm, and entertain the mind, as I 
feel quite sure your story will do. So begin, friend, for we 
are all prepared to listen.” 

I draw my stakes,” ^ said Sancho, and will retreat with 
this pasty to the brook there, where I mean to victual myself 
for three days; for I have heard my lord, Don Quixote, say 
that a knight-errant’s squire should eat until he can hold no 
more, whenever he has the chance, because it often happens 
them to get by accident into a wood so thick that they can not 
find a way out of it for six days ; and if the man is not well 
filled or his alforjas well stored, there he may stay, as very 
often he does, turned into a dried mmnmy.” 

“ Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 

go where thou wilt and eat all thou canst, for I have had 
enough, and only want to give my mind its refreshment, as I 
shall by listening to this good fellow’s story.” 

It is what we shall all do,” said the canon ; and then 
begged the goatherd to begin the promised tale. 

The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a 
couple of slaps on the back, saying, Lie down here beside 
me. Spotty, for we have time enough to return to our fold.” 
The goat seemed to understand him, for as her master seated 
himself, she stretched herself quietly beside him and looked 

* The phrase used only by a player who wishes to withdraw from a 
game. 


CHAPTER LI. 


429 


up in his face to show him she was all attention to what 
he was going to say, and then in these words he began his 
story. 


CHAPTER LI. 

WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO 
WERE CARRYING OFF DON QUIXOTE, 

Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though 
small, is one of the richest in all this neighborhood, and in it there 
lived a farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respected that, 
although to be so is the natural consequence of being rich, he was 
even more respected for his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. 
But what made him still more fortunate, as he said himself, was having 
a daughter of such exceeding beauty, rare intelligence, gracefulness, 
and virtue, that every one who knew her and beheld her marvelled at 
the extraordinary gifts with which heaven and earth had endowed her. 
As a child she was beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and at 
the age of sixteen she was most lovely. The fame of her beauty 
began to spread abroad through all the villages around — but why do 
I say the villages around, merely, when it spread to distant cities, 
and even made its way into the halls of royalty and reached the ears 
of people of every class, who came from all sides to see her as if to 
see something rare and curious, or some wonder-working image ? 

Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for 
there are no locks, or guards, or bolts that can protect a young girl bet- 
ter than her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of 
the daughter led many neighbors as well as strangers to seek her for 
a wife ; but he, as one might well be who had the disposal of so rich 
a jewel, was perplexed and unable to make up his mind to which of 
her countless suitors he should intrust her. I was one among the 
many who felt a desire so natural, and, as her father knew who I 
was, and I was of the same town, of pure blood, in the bloom of life, 
and very rich in possessions, I had great hopes of success. There 
was another of the same place and qualifications who also sought her, 
and this made her father’s choice hang in the balance, for he felt 
that on either of us his daughter would be well bestowed ; so to es- 
cape from this state of perplexity he resolved to refer the matter to 
Leandra (for that is the name of the rich damsel who has reduced me 
to misery), reflecting that as we were both equal it would be best to 
leave it to his dear daughter to choose according to her inclination — 
a course that is worthy of imitation by all fathers who wish to settle 
their children in life. I do not mean that they ought to leave them to 
make a choice of what is contemptible and bad, but that they should 
place before them what is good and then allow them to make a good 
choice as they please. I do not know which Leandra chose ; 1 only 


430 


DON QUIXOTE. 


know her father put us off with the tender age of his daughter and 
vague words that neither bound him nor dismissed us. My rival is 
called Anselmo and I myself Eugenio — that you know the 

names of the personages that figure in this tragedy, the end of which 
is still in suspense, though it is plain to see it must be disastrous. 

About this time there arrived in bur town one Vicente de la Roca, 
the son of a poor peasant of the same town, the said Vicente having 
returned from service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts. 
A captain who chanced to pass that way with his company had carried 
him off from our village when he was a boy of about twelve years, 
and now twelve years later the young man came back in a soldier’s 
uniform, arrayed in a thousand colors, and all over glass trinkets and 
fine steel chains. To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-mor- 
row in another; but all flimsy and gaudy, of little substance and less 
worth. The peasant folk, who are naturally malicious, and when 
they have nothing to do can be malice itself, remarked all this, and 
took note of his finery and jewellery, piece by piece, and discovered 
that he had three suits of different colors, with garters and stockings 
to match; but he made so many arrangements and combinations 
out of them, that if they had not counted them, any one would have 
sworn that he had made a display of more than ten suits of clothes 
and twenty plumes. Do not look upon all this that I am telling you 
about the clothes as uncalled for or spun out, for they have a great 
deal to do with the story. He used to seat himself on a bench under 
the great poplar in our plaza ; and there he would keep us all hanging 
open-mouthed on the stories he told us of his exploits. There was 
no country on the face of the globe he had not seen, nor battle he 
had not been engaged in ; he had killed more Moors than there are 
in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more single combats, according 
to his own account, than Garcilaso,^ Diego Garcia de Paredes and 
a thousand others he named, and out of all he had come victorious 
without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he showed marks 
of wounds, which, though they could not be made out, he said were 
gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastly, 
with monstrous impudence he used to say “ you ” to his equals and 
even those who knew what he was, and declare that his arm was his 
father and his deeds his pedigree, and that being a soldier he was as 
good as the king himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he 
was a trifle of a musician, and played the guitar with such a flourish 
that some said he made it speak ; nor did his accomplishments end 
here, for he was something of a poet too, and on every trifle that 
happened in the town he made a ballad a league and a half long. 

This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca, 
this bravo, gallant, musician, poet, was often seen and watched by 
Leandra from a window of her house which looked out on the plaza. 
The glitter of his showy attire took her fancy, his ballads bewitched 

^ The original editions have " Gante y Luna,” which are not names of 
persons known in connection with any feats of the kind described. Gar- 
cilaso {v. p. 419) is much more likely to be the name mentioned with 
Diego Garcia de Paredes. 


CHAPTER LI. 


431 


her (for he gave away twenty copies of every one he made) , the tales 
of his exploits which he told about himself came to her ears ; and in 
short, as the devil no doubt had arranged it, she fell in love with 
him before the presumption of making love to her had suggested 
itself to him ; and as in love-affairs none are more easily brought to 
an issue than those which have the inclination of the lady for an ally, 
Leandra and Vicente came to an understanding without any difficulty ; 
and before any of her numerous suitors had any suspicion of her 
design, she had already carried it into effect, having left the house 
of her dearly beloved father (for mother she had none), and dis- 
appeared from the village with the soldier, who came more trium- 
phantly out of this enterprise than out of any of the large number 
he laid claim to. All the village and all who heard of it were 
amazed at the affair ; I was aghast, Anselmo thunderstruck, her 
father full of grief, her relations indignant, the authorities all in a 
ferment, the officers of the Brotherhood all in arms. They scoured 
the roads, they searched the woods and all quarters, and at the end 
of three days they found the flighty Leandra in a mountain cave, 
stript to her shift, and robbed of all the money and precious jewels 
she had carried away from home with her. They brought her back 
to her unhappy father, and questioned her as to her misfortune, and 
she confessed without pressure that Vicente de la Roca had deceived 
her, and under promise of marrying her had induced her to leave 
her father’s house, as he meant to take her to the richest and most 
delightful city in the whole world, which was Naples ; and that she, 
ill-advised and deluded, had believed him, and robbed her father, 
and handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that 
he had carried her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in 
the cave where they had found her. She said, moreover, that the 
soldier, without robbing her of her honor, had taken from her every- 
thing she had, and made off, leaving her in the cave, a thing that 
still further surprised everybody. It was not easy for us to credit 
the young man’s continence, but she asserted it with such earnestness 
that it helped to console her distressed father, who thought nothing 
of what had been taken since the jewel that once lost can never be 
recovered had been left to his daughter. The same day that Leandra 
made her appearance her father removed her from our sight and 
took her away to shut her up in a convent in a town near this, in the 
hope that time may wear away some of the disgrace she has incurred. 
Leandra’s youth furnished an excuse for her fault, at least with those 
to whom it was of no consequence whether she was good or bad ; 
but those who knew her shrewdness and intelligence did not attribute 
her misdemeanor to ignorance but to wantonness and the natural 
disposition of women, which is for the most part flighty and ill- 
regulated. 

Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo’s eyes grew blind, or at 
any rate found nothing to look at that gave them^ any pleasure, and 
mine were in darkness without a ray of light to direct them to any- 
thing enjoyable while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew 
greater, bur patience grew less ; we cursed the soldier’s flnery and 


432 


DON QUIXOTE. 


railed at the carelessness of Leandra’s father. At last Anselmo and 
I agreed to leave the village and come to this valley ; and, he feeding 
a great flock of sheep of his own, and 1 a large herd of goats of 
mine, we pass our life among the trees, giving vent to our sorrows, 
together singing the fair Leandra’s^ praises, or upbraiding her, or 
else sighing alone, and to Heaven pouring forth our complaints in 
solitude. Following our example, many more of Leandra’s lovers 
have come to these rude mountains and adopted our mode of life, 
and they are so numerous that one would fancy the place had been 
turned into the pastoral Arcadia, so full it is of .shepherds and sheep- 
folds ; nor is there a spot in it where the name of the fair Leandra is 
not heard. Here one curses her and calls her capricious, fickle, and 
immodest, there another condemns her as frail and frivolous; this 
pardons and absolves her, that spurns and reviles her; one extols her 
beauty, another assails her character, and in short, all abuse her, and 
all adore her, and to such a pitch has this general infatuation gone 
that there are some who complain of her scorn without ever having 
exchanged a word with her, and even some that bewail and mourn 
the raging fever of jealousy, for which she never gave any one cause, 
for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her 
passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade 
beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his 
woes to the breezes ; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name 
of Leandra; the mountains ring with “ Leandra,*’ “ Leandra” mur- 
mur the brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and bewitched, 
hoping without hope and fearing without knowing what we fear. 
Of all this silly set the one that shows the least and also the most 
sense is my rival Anselmo, for having so many other things to com- 
plain of, he only complains of separation, and to the accompaniment 
of a rebeck, which he plays admirably, he sings his complaints in 
verses that show his ingenuity. I follow another easier, and to 
my mind wiser course, and that is to rail at the frivolity of women, 
at their inconstancy, their double dealing, their broken promises, 
their unkept pledges, and in short the want of reflection they show 
in fixing their affections and inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason 
of words and expressions I made use of to this goat when I came up 
just now ; for as she is a female I have a contempt for her, though 
she is the best in all my fold. This is the story I promised to tell 
you, and if I have been tedious in telling it; I will not be slow to 
serve you ; ray hut is close by, and I have fresh milk and dainty 
cheese there, as well as a variety of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing 
to the eye than to the palate. 


CHAPTER LIL 


4sa 


CHAPTER LII. 

OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOAT- 
HERD, TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE 
PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE 
BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION. 

The goatherd’s tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, 
and the canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with 
particular attention the manner in which it had been told, 
which was as unlike the manner of a clownish goatherd as it 
was like that of a polished city wit ; and he observed that the 
curate had been quite right in saying that the woods bred men 
of learning. They all offered their services to Eugenio, but he 
who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don Quixote, 
who said to him, Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found 
myself in a position to attempt any adventure, I would, this 
very instant, set out on your behalf, and would rescue Leandra 
from that convent (where no doubt she is kept against her will), 
in spite of the abbess and all who might try to prevent me, and 
would place her in your hands to deal with her according to 
your will and pleasure, observing, however, the laws of chivalry 
which lay down that no violence of any kind is to be offered to 
any damsel. But I trust in G-od our Lord that the might of 
one malignant enchanter may not prove so great but that the 
power of another better disposed may prove superior to it, and 
then I promise you my support arid assistance, as I am bound 
to do by my profession, which is rione other than to give aid 
to the weak and rieedy.” 

The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote’s sorry 
appearance and looks, he was filled with wonder and asked the 
barber, who was next him, “ Senor, who is this man who 
makes such a figure arid talks iri such a strain ? ” 

Who should it be,” said the barber, but the famous Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of 
wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and the 
winner of battles ? ” 

“ That,” said the goatherd, sounds like what one reads in 
the books of the knights-errant, who did all that you say this 
man does; though it is my belief that either you are joking, 
or else this gentleman has empty lodgings in his head.” 

VoL. I. - 28 


434 


DON QUIXOTE. 


You are a great scoundrel,’’ said Don Quixote, ^^and it is 
you who are empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the 
whoreson bitch that bore you;” and passing from words to 
deeds, he caught up a loaf , that was near him and sent it full 
in the goatherd’s face, with such force that he flattened his 
nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and 
found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying 
no respect to carpet, table-cloth, or diners, sprang upon Don 
Quixote, and seizing him by the throat with both hands would 
no doubt have throttled him, had not Sancho Panza that 
instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the shoulders 
flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses, 
and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, 
finding himself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who, 
with his face covered with blood, and soundly kicked by 
Sancho, was on all fours feeling about for one of the table- 
knives to take a bloody revenge with. The canon and the 
curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so contrived it 
that the goatherd got Don Quixote under, and rained down upon 
him such a shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight’s face 
streamed with blood as freely as his own. The canon and the 
curate were bursting with laughter, the ofiicers were capering 
with delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on 
as they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight.’ 
Sancho alone was frantic, for he could not free himself from 
the grasp of one of the canon’s servants, who kept him from 
going to his master’s assistance. 

At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two 
bruisers who were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoy- 
ment, they heard a trumpet sound a note so doleful that it 
made them all look in the direction whence the sound seemed 
to come. But the one that was most excited by hearing it was 
Don Quixote, who, though sorely against his will he was under 
the goatherd, and something more than pretty well pummelled, 
said to him, Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou 
must be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to 
overcome mine), I ask thee to agree to a truce for but one hour, 
for the solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls on our ears 
seems to me to summon me to some new adventure.” The 

^ Hartzenbusch, who will never admit an error in taste or judgment ih 
Cervantes, explains the conduct of the canon and curate on this occasion 
by pointing out that it was after dinner. 


CHAPTER LII. 


435 


goatherd, who was by this time tired of pummelling and being 
pummelled, released him at once, and Don Quixote rising to 
his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter where the sound 
had been heard, suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill 
several men clad in white like penitents. 

The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their 
moisture from the earth, and in all the villages of the district 
they were organizing processions, rogations, and penances, im- 
ploring Grod to open the hands of his mercy and send them 
rain ; and to this end the people of a village that was hard by 
were going in procession to a holy hermitage that was on one 
side of that valley. Don Quixote, when he saw the strange 
garb of the penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen 
it before, took it into his head that this was a case of adventure, 
and that it fell to him alone as a knight-errant to engage in it ; 
and he was all the more confirmed in this notion, by the idea 
that an image draped in black they had with them was some 
illustrious lady that these villains and discourteous thieves were 
carrying off by force. As soon as this occurred to him he ran 
with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at large, and tak- 
ing the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he had 
him bridled in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword 
he mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, and in 
a loud voice exclaimed to those who stood by, Now, noble 
company, ye shall see how important it is that there should be 
knights in the world professing the order of knight-errantry ; 
now, I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that worthy lady 
who is borne captive there, whether knights-errant deserve to 
be held in estimation,” and so saying he brought his legs to 
bear on Rocinante — for he had no spurs — and at a full canter 
(for in all this veracious history we never read of Rocinante 
fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, though the 
curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it 
was out of their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of 
Sancho calling after him, Where are you going, Senor Don 
Quixote ? What devils have possessed you to set you on against 
our Catholic faith ? Plague take me ! mind, that is a proces- 
sion of penitents, and the lady they are carrying on that stand 
there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take 
care what you are doing, senor, for this time it may be safely 
said you don’t know what you are about.” Sancho labored in 
vain, for his master was so bent on coming to quarters with 


436 


DON QUIXOTE. 


these sheeted figures and releasing the lady in black that he 
did not hear a word ; and even had he heard, he would not have 
turned back if the king: had ordered him. He came up with 
the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was already anxious 
enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited voice 
he exclaimed, You who hide your faces, perhaps because you 
are not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am 
about to say to you.’’ The first to halt were those who were 
carrying the image, and one of the four ecclesiastics who were 
chanting the Litany, struck by the strange figure of Don Qui- 
xote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the other ludicrous pecu- 
liarities he observed, said in reply to him, Brother, if you 
have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these brethren 
are whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it reason- 
able we should stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short 
enough to be said in two words.” 

I will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote,. « and. it is this ; 
that at once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose 
tears and sad aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off 
against her will, and that ye have committed some scandalous 
outrage against her ; and I, who was born into the world to 
redress all such like wrongs, will not permit you to advance 
another step until you have restored to her the liberty she 
pines for and deserves.” 

From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be 
a madman, , and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter 
acted like gunpowder on Don Quixote’s fury, for drawing his 
sword without: another word he made a rush at the stand. 
One of those who supported it, leaving the burden to his 
comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick 
that he had for propping up the stand when resting, and with 
this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that 
severed it in two ; but with the portion that remained in his 
hand he dealt such a thwack on the shoulder of Don Quixote’s 
sword arm (which the buckler could not protect against the 
clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the ground 
in a sad plight. 

Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and 
blowing, seeing him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike 
him again, for he was a poor enchanted knight, who had never 
harmed any one all the days of his life ; but what checked 
the clown was, not Sancho’s shouting, but seeing that Don 


CHAPTER LIL 


437 


Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and so, fancying he had 
killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle 
and took to his heels across the country like a deer. 

By this time all Don Quixote’s companions had come up to 
where he lay; but the processionists seeing them come run- 
ning, and with them the officers of the Brotherhood with their 
crossbows, apprehended mischief, and clustering round the 
image, raised their hoods, and grasped their scourges, as the 
priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack, resolved to 
defend themselves and even to take the offensive against their 
assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the 
matter better than they expected, for all Sancho did was to 
fling himself on his master’s body, raising over him the most 
doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heard, for he 
believed he was dead. The curate was known to another 
curate who walked in the procession, and their recognition of 
one another set at rest the apprehensions of both parties ; the 
first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote was, 
and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the 
poor gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, 
with tears in his eyes, Oh flower of chivalry, that with one 
blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy well-spent life ! 
Oh pride of thy race, honor and glory of all La Mancha, nay, 
of all the world, that for want of thee will be full of evil- 
doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their misdeeds ! 
Oh thou, generous above all the Alexanders, since for only 
eight months of service thou hast given me the best island the 
sea girds or surrounds ! ^ Humble with the proud, haughty 
with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of outrages, 
enamoured without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of 
the wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which 
is all that can be said ! ” 

At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to him- 
self, and the first word he said was, “ He who lives separated 
from you, sweetest Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure 
than these. Aid me, friend Sancho, to mount the enchanted 
cart, for I am not in a condition to press the saddle of Koci- 
nante, as this shoulder is all knocked to pieces.” 

That I will do with all my heart, senor,” said Sancho ; “ and 

* It is commonly said that Sancho, though he would have understood 
what "isla” meant, had no conception of the meaning of "insula,” the 
antiquated word for island Don Quixote always uses ; but it appears from 
this that he understood perfectly what an insula is. 


438 


DON QUIXOTE. 


let us return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your 
good, and there we will prepare for making another sally, 
which may turn out more profitable and creditable to us.’’ 

Thou art right, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote ; it will 
be wise to let the malign influence of the stars which now pre- 
vails pass off.” 

The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act 
very wisely in doing as he said ; and so, highly amused at 
Sancho Panza’s simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the 
cart as before. The procession once more formed itself in 
order and proceeded on its road ; the goatherd took his leave 
of the party ; the officers of the Brotherhood declined to go 
any farther, and the curate paid them what was due to them ; 
the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don Quixote 
did, whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from 
it, and then begged leave to continue his journey ; in short, 
they all separated and went their ways, leaving to themselves 
the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the 
good Kocinante, who regarded everything with as great resig- 
nation as his master. The carter yoked his oxen and made 
Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his usual 
deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the 
end of six days they reached Don Quixote’s village, and en- 
tered it about the middle of the day, which it so happened was 
a Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza, through which 
Don Quixote’s cart passed. They all flocked to see what was 
in the cart, and when they recognized their townsman they 
were filled with amazement, arnd a boy ran off to bring the 
news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master and 
uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a 
truss of hay on an ox-cart. It was piteous to hear the cries 
the two good ladies raised, how they beat their breasts and 
poured out fresh maledictions on those accursed books of chiv- 
alry ; all which was renewed when they saw Don Quixote com- 
ing in at the gate. 

At the news of Don Quixote’s arrival Sancho Panza’s wife 
came running, for she by this time knew that her husband had 
gone away with him as his squire, and on seeing Sancho, the 
first thing she asked him was if the ass was well. Sancho re- 
plied that he was, better than his master was. 

Thanks be to God,” said she, for being so good to me ; but 
now tell me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings ? 


CHAPTER LIE 


439 


What gown have you brought me back ? What shoes for your 
children ? ’’ 

I bring nothing of that sort, wife,’^ said Sancho ; “ though 
I bring other things of more consequence and value/’ 

I am very glad of that,” returned his wife ; “ show me these 
thin";^ of more value and consequence, my friend ; for I want 
to see them to cheer my heart that has been so sad and heavy 
all these ages that you have been away.” 

will show them to yon at home, wife,” said Sancho ; be 
content for the present ; for if it please God that we should 
again go on our travels in search of adventures, you will soon 
see me a count, or governor of an island, and that not one of 
those every-day ones, but the best that is to be had.” 

Heaven grant it, husband,” said she, for indeed we have 
need of it. But tell me, what ’s this about islands, for I don ’t 
understand it ? ” 

Honey is not for the mouth of the ass,” ^ returned Sancho ; 
all in good time thou shalt see, wife — nay, thou wilt be 
surprised to hear thyself called ^your ladyship,’ by all thy 
vassals.” 

“ What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, 
islands, and vassals ? ” returned Teresa Panza — for so Sancho’s 
wife was called, though they were not relations, for in La Man- 
cha it is customary for wives to take their husbands’ surnames. 

Don’t be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa,” said San- 
cho ; it is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your 
mouth. But I may tell you this much by the way, that there 
is nothing in the world more delightful than to be a person of 
consideration, squire to a knight-errant, and a seeker of advent- 
ures. To be sure most of those one finds do not end as pleas- 
antly as one could wish, for out of a hundred that one meets 
with, ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it 
by experience, for out of some I came blanketed, and out of 
others belabored. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be on 
the lookout for what may happen, crossing mountains, search- 
ing woods, climbing rocks, visiting castles, putting up at inns, 
all at free quarters, and devil take the maravedi to pay.” 

While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and 
his wife, Don Quixote’s housekeeper and niece took him in 
and undressed him and laid him in his old bed. He eyed 
them askance, and could not make out where he was. The 
1 Prov. 138. 


440 


DON QUIXOTE. 


curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her uncle 
comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make 
his escape from them again, telling her what they had been 
obliged to do to bring him home. On this the pair once more 
lifted up their voices and renewed their maledictions upon the 
books of chivalry, and implored Heaven to plunge the authors 
of such lies and nonsense into the midst of the bottomless 
pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their 
uncle and master should give them the slip the moment he 
found himself somewhat better, and as they feared so it fell 
out. 

But the author of this history, though he has devoted 
research and industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved 
by Don Quixote in his third sally, has been unable to obtain 
any information respecting them, at any rate derived from 
authentic documents; tradition has merely preserved in the 
memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the third 
time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Sara- 
gossa, where he was present at some famous jousts which 
came off in that city, and that he had adventures there worthy 
of his valor and high intelligence. Of his end and death he 
could learn no particulars, nor would he have ascertained it or 
known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old physi- 
cian for him who had in his possession a leaden box, which, 
according to his account, had been discovered among the 
crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being 
rebuilt; in which box were found certain parchment manu- 
scripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian verse, containing 
many of his achievements, and setting forth the beauty of 
Dulcinea, the form of Bocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, 
and the burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundr}/ 
epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character ; but all that 
could be read and deciphered were those which the trust- 
worthy author of this new and unparalleled history here 
presents. And the said author asks of those that shall read 
it nothing in return for the vast toil which it has cost him in 
examining and searching the Manchegan archives in order to 
bring it to light, save that they give him the same credit that 
people of sense ^ give to the books of chivalry that pervade 

* One of his grievances against the books of chivalry being that they 
led astray not merely the silly, thoughtless, and uncritical, but vast 
numbers of people who ought to know better. 


CHAPTER LI I, 


441 


the world and are so popular ; for with this he will consider 
himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged 
to seek out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at 
least equal in invention and not less entertaining. The first 
words written on the parchment found in the leaden box were 
these ; 

THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA,^ 

A VILLAGE OF LA MANCHA, 

ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE OF 
LA MANCHA, 

HOC SCRIPSERUNT. 

Monicongo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Tomb 
OF Don Quixote. 

EPITAPH. 

The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more 
Eich spoils than Jason’s; who a point so keen 
Had to his wit, and happier far had been 
If his wit’s weathercock a blunter bore ; 

The arm renowned far as Gaeta’s shore, 

Cathay, and all the lands that lie between ; 

The muse discreet and terrible in mien 
As ever wrote on brass in days of yore ; 

He who surpassed the Amadises all. 

And who as naught the Galaors accounted, 

Supported by his love and gallantry : 

Who made the Belianises sing small. 

And sought renown on Eocinante mounted ; 

Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie. 

* Whether or not this is to be held an indication of some grudge on the 
part of Cervantes against the authorities of the town, it is, at any rate, 
conclusive that Don Quixote’s village, ” the name of which he did not care 
to call to mind,” was Argamasilla. ” Monicongo ” may be translated 
" mannikin ; ” *' Paniaguado ” is a sort of parasite hanging about the house 
of a patron for such scraps as he can pick up ; " Burlador ” means a 
joker, and " Cachidiablo ” a hobgoblin. Except, perhaps, in the sonnet 
on Sancho Panza, there is not much drollery or humor in these verses, 
but it would not be fair to criticise them severely, as they are obviously 
nothing more than a mere outburst of reckless nonsense to finish off with; 
a sort of flourish or rhhrica like that commonly appended to a Spanish 
signature. 


442 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Paniaguado, Academician of Argamasilla, in Laudem 
Dulcine^ del Toboso. 

SONNET. 

She, whose full features may be here descried, 
High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain, 

Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain 
The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed. 

For her, Toboso’s queen, from side to side 
He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign 
Of Aranjuez, and Montiel’s famous plain : 

On Eocinante oft a weary ride. 

Malignant planets, cruel destiny. 

Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame. 

And the unconquered star of chivalry. 

Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim 
Of death ; he paid love’s bitter penalty. 

And left the marble to preserve his name. 


Caprichoso, a most acute Academician of Argamasilla, 
IN Praise of Eocinante, Steed of Don Quixote of 
La Mancha. 


SONNET. 

On that proud throne ^ of diamantine sheen, 

Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade, 

The mad Manchegan’s banner now hath been 
By him in all its bravery displayed. 

There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade 
Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen. 

He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews ; but art hath made 
A novel style for our new paladin. 

If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul, 

If by his progeny the fame of Greece 

Through all the regions of the earth be spread, 

* In the second and third editions trono — "throne” — was changed 
into tronco^ which Hartzenbusch considers a blundering alteration. I am 
inclined to think, however, that he is wrong, and that what Cervantes 
meant was not a diamond-studded throne, but an adamant pillar, a trophy 
in fact. But it is no great matter ; the sonnet was meant for nonsense, 
and is successful either way. 


CHAPTER LIT. 


443 


Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona’s hall 
To-day exalts La Mancha over these, 

And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head. 
Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed 
Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed ; ^ 

As mettled steeds compared with Kocinante, 

The reputation they have won is scanty. 

Burlador, Academician of Argamasilla, on Sancho 
Panza. 

SONNET. 

The worthy Sancho Panza here you see ; 

A great soul once was in that body small. 

Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball 
So plain and simple, or of guile so free. 

Within an ace of being Count was he. 

And would have been but for the spite and gall 
Of this vile age, mean and illiberal. 

That can not even let a donkey be. 

Por mounted on an ass (excuse the word). 

By Rocinante’s side this gentle squire 

Was wont his wandering master to attend. 
Delusive hopes that lure the common herd 
With promises of ease, the heart’s desire. 

In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end. 

Cachidiablo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the 
Tomb of Don Quixote. 

EPITAPH. 

The knight lies here below, 

Ill-errant and bruised sore, 

Whom Rocinante bore 
In his wanderings to and fro. 

’ Brillador was Orlando’s horse ; Bayard, Kinaldo’s : 

’’ Quel Brigliador si hello e si gagliardo 
Che non ha paragon, fuorche Baiardo.” 

Orlando Furioso^ ix. 60. 


444 


DON QUIXOTE. 


By the side of the knight is laid 
Stolid man Sancho too, 

Than whom a squire more true 
Was not in the esquire trade. 

Tiquitoc, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Tomb 
OF Dulcinea del Toboso. 

epitaph. 

Here Dulcinea lies. 

Plump was she and robust : 

Now she is ashes and dust : 

The end of all flesh that dies. 

A lad}’ of high degree, 

With the port of a lofty dame. 

And the great Don Quixote’s flame. 

And the pride of her village was she. 

These were all the verses that could be deciphered ; the rest, 
the writing being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the 
Academicians to make out their meaning conjecturally. We 
have been informed that at the cost of many sleepless nights 
and much toil he has succeeded, and that he means to publish 
them in hopes of Don Quixote’s third sally. 

•' Forse altro cantera con miglior plettro.” * 

* Misquoted from Ariosto, Orlando Ftirioso., xxx. 16 : 

Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro.” 

Cervantes, it will be seen, leaves it very uncertain whether he means to 
give a continuation of the adventures of Don Quixote or not, and here 
almost seems to invite some other historian to undertake the task. 


END OF VOL. 1. 


THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN 


DON QUIXOTE 

OF LA MANCHA 


BY 

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA 


A TRANSLATION, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

JOHN ORMSBY 

TRANSLATOR OF THE “ POEM OF THE CID ** 


IN TWO VOLUMES 
VOL. II. 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO, 
PUBLISHERS 





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PREFACE 


CONTENTS. 

VOL. 11. 


PAGH 

xi 


CHAPTER 

I. Of the interview the Curate and the Barber had 
WITH Don Quixote about his malady 

II. Which treats of the notable altercation which 
Sancho Panza had with Don Quixote's niece and 
housekeeper, together with other droll matters, 

III. Of the laughable conversation that passed between 

Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the bachelor 
Samson Carrasco 

IV. In which Sancho Panea gives a satisfactory reply 

% 

TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR 

Samson Carrasco, together with other matters 

WORTH KNOWING AND MENTIONING 

V. Of THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED 
BETWEEN Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Panza, 
AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED, 

VI. Of what TOOK place between Don Quixote and his 

NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER ; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT 

chapters in the whole history . ... . 

VII. Of WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QuiXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, 

TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS . 

VIII. Wherein is related what befell Don Quixote on 

HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DuLCINEA DEL TOBOSO 

IX. Wherein is related what will be seen there . 

X. Wherein is related the crafty device Sancho 
adopted to enchant the Lady Dulcinea, and other 

INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE . 

XI. Of the strange adventure which the valiant Don 
Quixote had with the car or cart of “ The 
Cortes of Death ” .■•••• 


1 

12 

17 

26 

30 

36 

42 

49 

56 

60 

68 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


> CHAPTER 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 
XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


XXIII. 


XXIV. 


PAGE 

Of the strange adventure which befell the val- 


iant Don Quixote with the bold Knight of the 

Mirrors . 74 

In which is continued the adventure of the Knight 
OF THE Grove, together with the sensible, orig- 
inal, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN 

THE TWO SQUIRES .81 

Wherein is continued the adventure of the Knight 

OF THE Grove 87 

Wherein it is told and made known who the 

Knight of the Mirrors and his squire were . 97 

Of what BEFELL DON QuiXOTE WITH A DISCREET GEN- 
TLEMAN OF La Mancha . • . . . .99 


Wherein is shown the furthest and highest point 
WHICH the unexampled COURAGE OP DoN QuiXOTE 
reached or could reach; together WITH THE 
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS . . 108 

Op what happened to Don Quixote in the castle or 
HOUSE of the Knight op the Green Gaban, to- 
gether with other matters out of the common . 119 

In which is related the adventure op the enam- 
oured shepherd, together with other truly 
DROLL incidents . . . . .. . . 128 

Wherein an account is given of the wedding of 
Camacho the rich, together with the incident 

OF Basilio the poor 135 

In which Camacho’s wedding is continued, with 

OTHER delightful INCIDENTS ..... 143 

Wherein is related the grand adventure of the 
CAVE OF MoNTESINOS IN THE HEART OF La MaNCHA, 

WHICH THE VALIANT DON QuiXOTE BROUGHT TO A 
HAPPY TERMINATION ....... 149 

Of the wonderful things the incomparable Don 
Quixote said he saw in the profound cave of 
Montesinos, the impossibility and magnitude of 

WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOC- 


RYPHAL 157 

Wherein are related a thousand trifling mat- 
ters, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE 
BIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY" - . 107 


SHAFTS B 

XXV, 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 


CONTENTS. vii 

PAGE 

Wherein is set down the braying adventure, 

AND the droll ONE OP THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, 
TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OP 

THE DIVINING APB 174 

Wherein is continued the droll adventure op 
THE puppet-showman, TOGETHER WITH OTHER 
THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD .... 182 

Wherein it is shown who Master Pedro and his 

APB WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON QUI- 
XOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE 
DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR 

AS HE HAD EXPECTED 190 

Op MATTERS THAT BeNENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS 
THEM WILL KNOW, IP HE READS THEM WITH AT- 
TENTION . . 196 

Op the famous adventure of the enchanted 

BARK . . 201 

Of Don Quixote’s adventure with a fair hunt- 
ress . 207 

Which treats of many and great matters . . 212 

Of the reply Don Quixote gave his censurer, 

with other incidents, grave and droll . . 220 

Op the delectable discourse which the duchess 

AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SaNCHO PaNZA, 

WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING . ' . . 233 

Which relates how they learned the way in 

WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS 

Dulcinea del Toboso, which is one of the 
RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK . . . 240 

Wherein is continued the instruction given to 
Don Quixote touching the disenchantment op 
Dulcinea, together with other marvellous 
INCIDENTS ........ 248 

Wherein is related the strange and undreamt- 
of ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DuENNA, 

ALIAS THE Countess' Trifaldi, together with 
A LETTER WHICH SaNCHO PaNZA WROTE TO HIS 
WIFE, Teresa Panza , . . . ... 254 

Wherein is continued the notable adventure 

OF THE Distressed Duenna . ... 260 

Wherein is told the Distressed Duenna’s tale 

op her misfortunes . . ... 263 


CONTENTS, 


CH AFTER 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVr. 

XL VII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 

LII. 

LIII. 


In which the Trifaldi continues her marvel- 
lous AND MEMORABLE STORY . . . . . 

Of MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS 
ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY 

Of the arrival of Clavileno and the end of 
THIS protracted ADVENTURE . . . . 

Of the counsels which Don Quixote gave San- 

CHO PaNZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE 
ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED 
AtA.XT'CRS ••• •••• •* 

Of the second set of counsels Don Quixote 

GAVE SaNCHO PaNZA 

How Sancho Panza was conducted to his gov- 
ernment, AND of the strange ADVENTURE THAT 
BEFELL Don Quixote in the castle . 

Of how the great Sancho Panza took pos- 
session OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A 
BEGINNING IN GOVERNING . 

Of THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DoN 

Quixote got in the course op the enamoured 

Altisidora’s wooing 

Wherein is continued the account of how 
Sancho Panza conducted himself in his gov- 
ernment 

Of what befell Don Quixote with Dona Ro- 
driguez, THE duchess’s DUENNA, TOGETHER WITH 
OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OP RECORD AND 
ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE ...... 

Of WHAT HAPPENED TO SaNCHO PaNZA IN MAKING 
THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND 

Wherein is set forth who the enchanters and 

EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED THE DUENNA 
AND PINCHED DON QuiXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT 
BEFELL THE PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER TO 

Teresa Panza, Sancho Panza’s wife . 

Of the progress of Sancho’s government, and 
OTHER such entertaining MATTERS 
Wherein is related the adventure of the 

SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED DUENNA, 
OTHERWISE CALLED DoNA RoDRIGUEZ . 

Of the troublous end and termination Sancho 
Panza’s government came to ... , 


PAOB 

268 

271 

276 

286 

291 

297 

307 

314 

318 

326 

334 

344 

352 

359 

365 


CONTENTS, 


ix 


CHAPTKR 

LIV. 

LV. 

LVI. 

*LVIL 

LVIII. 

LIX. 

LX. 

LXI. 

LXII. 

LXIII. 

/ 

LXIV. 

JjXV. 

LXVI. 


Which deals with matters relating to this 

HISTORY AND NO OTHER 

Of what befell Sancho on the road, and other 

THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED 

Of the prodigious and unparalleled battle 

THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QuiXOTE OF La 

Mancha and the lackey Tosilos in defence 

OF the DAUGHTER OF THE DUENNA DoNA Ro- 
DRIGUEZ ........ 

Which treats of how Don Quixote took leave 

OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE 

witty and impudent Altisidora, one of the 

duchess’s damsels . 

Which tells how adventures came crowding 
ON Don Quixote in such numbers that they 

GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME 

Wherein is related the strange thing, which 
MAY BE regarded AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT HAP- 
PENED TO Don Quixote 

Of what happened to Don Quixote on his way 

to Barcelona 

Of what happened to Don Quixote on entering 
Barcelona, together with other matters 
that partake of the true rather than of 
THE ingenious ....... 

Which deals with the adventure of the en- 
chanted HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL 
MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD 
Of THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SaNCHO PaNZA 
THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE 
STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO . 

Treating of the adventure which gave Don 
Quixote more unhappiness than all that had 
hitherto befallen him . . . . . 

Wherein is made known who the Knight of 
the White Moon was ; likewise Don Gre- 
gorio’s RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS 
Which treats of what he who reads will see, 
OR what he who has it read to him will 

HEAR ••••••• 


PAGE 

370 

378 

385 

390 

394 

404 

412 

424 

427 

439 

448 

452 

457 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

LXVII. 


LXVIII. 

LXIX. 

LXX. 

LXXI. 

Lxxri. 

LXXIII. 

LXXIV. 


Of the resolution which Don Quixote formed 
TO TURN shepherd AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE 
FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR W'HICH HE HAD 
GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE ; WITH 
OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY 
Of the BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DoN 

Quixote . . 

Of the strangest and most extraordinary ad- 
venture THAT BEFELL DON QuiXOTE IN THE 
WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY 

Which- follows sixty-nine and deals with 

MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR COM- 
PREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY 
Of what PASSED BETWEEN DON QuiXOTE AND HIS 
SQUIRE SaNCHO ON THE WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE . 

Of how Don Quixote and Sancho reached 

THEIR VILLAGE . . .... 

Of the OMENS Don Quixote had as he entered 
HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHER INCIDENTS THAT 
EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOR TO THIS GREAT 
HISTORY ......... 

Of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the 

WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED 


PAGE 


462 

466 

471 

476 

483 

488 

493 

497 


APPENDICES. 

I. The Proverbs of Don Quixote 

II. The Spanish Romances of Chivalry 

III. Bibliography of Don Quixote . 


505 

528 

642 


PREFACE. 


God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how 
eagerly must thou be looking forward to this preface, expect- 
ing to find there retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the 
author of the second Don Quixote — I mean him who was, they 
say, begotten at Tordesillas and born at Tarragona ! ^ Well 
then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee that satisfaction ; 
for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, in mine 
the rule must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me 
call him ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no such intention ) 
let his offence be his punishment, with his bread let him eat 
it,^ and there ’s an end of it. What I can not help taking amiss 
is, that he charges me with being old and one-handed, as if it 
had been in my power to keep time from passing over me, or 
as if the loss of my hand had been brought about in some 
tavern, and not on the grandest occasion the past or present has 
seen, or the future can hope to see. If my wounds have no 
beauty to the beholder’s eye, they are, at least, honorable in 
the estimation of those who know where they were received ; 
for the soldier shows to greater advantage dead in battle 
than alive in flight ; and so strongly is this my feeling, that if 
now it were proposed to perform an impossibility for me, I 
would rather have had my share in that mighty action, than, 
be free from my wounds this minute without having been 
present at it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast, 
are stars that direct others to the heaven of honor and ambi- 
tion of merited praise ; and moreover it is to be observed that 
it is not with gray hairs that one writes, but with the under- 
standing, and that commonly improves with years. I take it 
amiss, too, that he calls me envious, and explains to me, as if 
I were ignorant, what envy is ; for really and truly, of the two 

• The spurious " Second Part,” which came out in the autumn of 1614, 
was described on the title-page as the work of Alonso Fernandez de Avella- 
neda, of Tordesillas, and was licensed and printed at Tarragona. 

^Proverbial phrase. See Note 1, vol. i. chapter xxv., page 189. 

(^) 


PREFACE. 


xii 

kinds there are, I only know that which is holy, noble, and 
high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely to 
attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of 
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on 
account of him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is 
entirely mistaken; for I worship the genius of that person, 
and admire his works and his unceasing and strenuous industry.* 
After all, however, I am grateful to this gentleman, the author, 
for saying that my novels are more satirical than exemplary 
but that they are good ; for they could not be that unless ther^ 
was a little of everything in them. 

I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, 
and keeping myself too much within the bounds of my modera- 
tion, from a feeling that additional suffering should not be 
inflicted upon a sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to 
endure must doubtless be very great, as he does not dare to 
come out into the open field and broad daylight, but hides his 
name and disguises his country as if he had been guilty of some 
lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come to know him, 
tell him from me that I do not hold myself aggrieved ; for I 
know well what the temptations of the devil are, and that one 
of the greatest is putting it into a man’s head that he can write 
and print a book by which he will get as much fame as money, 
and as much money as fame ; and to prove it I will beg of you, 
in your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story, 

There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the 
drollest absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world 
gave way to. It was this : he made a tube of reed sharp at 
one end, and catching a dog in the street, or wherever it might 
be, he with his foot held one of its legs fast, and with his hand 
/ifted up the other, and as best he could fixed the tube where, 
by blowing, he made the dog as round as a ball ; then holding 
it in this position, he gave it a couple of slaps on the belly, and 
let it go, saying to the bystanders (and there were always plenty 
of them) : Do your worships think, now, that it is an easy 
thing to blow up a dog ? ” — Does your worship think now^ 
that it is an easy thing to write a book ? 

* Avellaneda, in his coarse and scurrilous preface, charged Cervantes 
with attacking Lope de Vega, obviously alluding to the passages on the 
drama in vol. i. chapter xlviii., and attributed the attack to envy. Lope 
was not, however, a familiar of the Inquisition at the time Cervantes was 
writing the First Part oi Don Quixote^ as the words used here would 
imply. 


PREFACE. 


Xlll 


And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, 
tell him this one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog. 

In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to 
carry a piece of marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on 
his head, and when he came upon any unwary dog he used to 
draw close to him and let the weight fall right on top of him ; 
on which the dog in a rage, barking and howling, would run 
three streets without stopping. It so happened, however, that 
one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a cap-maker’s 
dog, of which his master was very fond. The stone came 
down hitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, 
the master saw the affair and was wroth, and snatching up a 
measuring-yard rushed out at the madman and did not leave a 
sound bone in his body, and at every stroke he gave him he 
said, You dog, you thief ! my lurcher ! ^ Don’t you see, you 
brute, that my dog is a lurcher ? ” and so, repeating the word 
lurcher ” again and again, he sent the madman away beaten, 
to a jelly. The madman took the lesson to heart, and van- 
ished, and for more than a month never once showed himself in 
public ; but after that he came out again with his old trick and 
a heavier load than ever. He came up to where there was a 
dog, and, examining it very carefully without venturing to let 
the stone fall, he said : This is a lurcher ; ware ! ” In short, 
all the dogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he 
said were lurchers ; and he discharged no more stones. May be 
it will be the same with this historian ; that he will not venture 
another time to discharge the weight of his wit in books, 
which, being bad, are harder than stones. Tell him, too, that 
I do not care a farthing for the threat he holds out to me 
of depriving me of my profit by means of his book ; for, to 
borrow from the famous interlude of “ The Perendenga,” I say 
in answer to him, Long life to my lord the Veintiquatro, and 
Christ be with us all.” ^ Long life to the great Conde de 
Lemos, whose Christian charity and well-known generosity 
support me against all the strokes of my curst fortune ; and 
long life to the supreme benevolence of His Eminence of 
Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Eojas ; ® and what matter 

^ Podtnco., a kind of small greyhound, hunting by nose as well as by 
sight, and generally used for rabbits. 

2 The municipal authorities of Seville, Cordova, and Granada were 
called Veintiquatros, from being twenty-four in number. The passage 
is, of course, a quotation from some popular interlude of the day. 

^ Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas was Cardinal- Archbishop of Toledo, 
Primate of Spain, and brother of the Duke of Lerma, the Prime Minister. 


XIV 


PREFACE. 


if there be no printing-presses in the world, or if they print 
more books against me than there are letters in the verses of 
Mingo Revulgo ! ^ These two princes, unsought by any adula- 
tion or flattery of mine, of their own goodness alone, have 
taken it upon them to show me kindness and protect me, and 
in this I consider myself happier and richer than if Fortune 
had raised me to her greatest height in the ordinary way. 
The poor man may retain honor, but not the vicious ; poverty 
may cast a cloud over nobility, but can not hide it altogether ; 
and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even though it be 
through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem 
of lofty and noble spirits, and in consequence their protection. 
Thou needst say no more to him, nor will I say anything more 
to thee, save to tell thee to bear in mind that this Second Part 
of Don Quixote ” which I offer thee is cut by the same crafts- 
man and from the same cloth as the First, and that in it I 
present thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead and 
buried, so that no one may dare to bring forward any further 
evidence against him, for that already produced is sufficient, 
and suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have 
given an account of all these shrewd lunacies of his without 
going into the matter again; for abundance, even of good 
things, prevents them from being valued ; and scarcity, even 
in the case of what is bad, confers a certain value. I was 
forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect the “ Persiles,’’ 
which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part of G-a- 
latea.’’ 

* Las Coplas de Mingo Revulgo is the title given to an old versified 
satire on the reign of Henry IV. absurdly attributed by some to Juan de 
Mena, by others to Rodrigo Cota, or Fernando del Pulgar. 


DON QUIXOTE. 

PAJiT II, 


CHAPTER I. 

OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH 
DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY. 

CiD Hamet Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, 
and third sally of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the 
barber remained nearly a month without seeing him, lest they 
should recall or bring back to his recollection what had taken 
place. They did not, however, omit to visit his niece and 
housekeeper, and charge them to be careful to treat him with 
attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and such as 
were good for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to 
see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper 
replied that they did so, and meant to do so with all possible 
care and assiduity, for they could perceive that their master 
was now and then beginning to show signs of being in his right 
mind. This gave great satisfaction to the curate and the bar- 
ber, for they concluded they had taken the right course in 
carrying him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as has been described 
in the First Part of this great as well as accurate history, in 
the last chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a visit 
and test the improvement in his condition, although they 
thought it almost imposible that there could be any ; and they 
agreed not to touch upon any point connected with knight- 
errantry, so as not to run the risk of re-opening wounds which 
were still so tender. 

They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting 
up in bed in a green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and 
so withered and dried up that he looked as if he had been 
turned into a mummy. They were very cordially received by 

VOL. ii. — 1 


2 


DON QUIXOTE. 


him ; they asked him after his health, and he talked to them 
about it and about himself very naturally and in very well 
chosen language. In the course of their conversation they fell 
to discussing what they call State-craft and systems of govern- 
ment, correcting this abuse and condemning that, reforming 
one practice and abolishing another, each of the three setting 
up for a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a brand-new 
Solon ; and so completely did they remodel the State, that 
they seemed to have thrust it into a furnace and taken out 
something quite different from what they had put in ; and on 
all the subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such 
good sense that the pair of examiners were fully convinced that 
he was quite recovered and in his full senses. 

The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation 
and could not find words enough to express their thanks to 
God at seeing their master so clear in his mind ; the curate, 
however, changing his original plan, which was to avoid touch- 
ing upon matters of chivalry, resolved to test Don Quixote^s 
recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine or not ; 
and so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of 
the news that had come from the Capital, and, among other 
things, he said it was considered certain that the Turk was 
coming down with a powerful fleet, and that no one knew what 
his purpose was, or when the great storm would burst ; and 
that all Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost 
every year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty had made 
provision for the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily 
and the island of Malta. 

To this Don Quixote replied, His Majesty has acted like a 
prudent warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in 
time, so that the enemy may not find him unprepared ; but if 
my advice were taken I would recommend him to adopt a meas- 
ure which at present, no doubt, his Majesty is very far from 
thinking of.’’ 

The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, God 
keep thee in his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me 
thou art precipitating thyself from the height of thy madness 
into the profound abyss of thy simplicity.” 

But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, 
asked Don Quixote what would be his advice as to the meas- 
ures that he said ought to be adopted ; for perhaps it might 
prove to be one that would have to be added to the list of the 


CHAPTER I. 


8 


many impertinent suggestions ’that people were in the habit of 
offering to princes. 

‘‘ Mine, master shaver,’^ said Don Quixote, “ will not be 
impertinent, but, on the contrary, pertinent.’’ 

I don’t mean that,” said the barber, “ but that experience 
has shown that all or most of the expedients which are pro- 
posed to his Majesty are either impossible, or absurd, or inju- 
rious to the King and to the kingdom.” 

“ Mine, however,” replied Don Quioxte, is neither impos- 
sible nor absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the 
readiest and most expeditious that could suggest itself to any 
projector’s mind.” . 

You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote,” said 
the curate. 

I don’t choose to tell it here, now,” said Don Quixote, and 
have it reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow 
morning, and some other carry off the thanks and rewards of 
my trouble.” 

For my part,” said the barber, I give my word here and 
before God that I will not repeat what your worship says, to 
King, Kook,^ or earthly man — an oath I learned from the 
ballad of the curate, who, in the prelude, told the king of the 
thief who had robbed him of the hundred gold crowns and his 
pacing mule.” ^ 

“ I am not versed in stories,” said Don Quixote ; “ but I know 
the oath is a good one, because I know the barber to be an 
honest fellow.” 

Even if he were not,” said the curate, I will go bail 
and answer for him that in this matter he will be as silent 
as a dummy, under pain of paying any penalty that may be 
pronounced.” 

And who will be security for you, senor curate ? ” said Don 
Quixote. 

My profession,” replied the curate, which is to keep 
secrets.” 

. “ Ods body ! ” * said Don Quixote at this, “ what more has his 

* Ni Rey ni Roque — " neither king nor rook ” — a popular phrase some- 
what like " gentle or simple,” or ” high or low.” According to Clemenciu 
probably derived from the game of chess, rook or rock (Pers. rokh) being 
the same thing as the castle. 

* The ballad referred to has not been identified so far as I am aware. 

^ Cuerpo de tal — like the English — a less irreverent form of " GodV 
body ! ” 


4 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Majesty to do but to command, by public proclamation, all the 
knights-errant that are scattered over Spain to assemble on a 
fixed day in the capital, for even if no more than half a dozen 
come, there may be one among them who alone will suffice to 
destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me your attention 
and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single knight- 
errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as 
if they all had but one throat or were made of sugar-paste ? 
Nay, tell me, how many histories are there filled with these 
marvels ? If only (in an evil hour for me : I don’t speak for 
any one else) the famous Don Belianis were alive now, or any 
one of the innumerable progeny of Amadis of Gaul ! If any 
of these were alive to-day, and were to come face to face with 
the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the Turk’s 
chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will pro- 
vide some one, who, if not so valiant as the knights-errant of 
yore, at least will not be inferior to them in spirit ; but God 
knows what I mean, and I say no more.” 

Alas ! ” exclaimed the niece at this, may I die if my 
master does not want to turn knight-errant again ; ” to which 
Don Quixote replied, A knight-errant I shall die, and let the 
Turk come down or go up when he likes, and in as strong force 
as he can, once more I say, God knows what I mean.” But 
here the barber said, I ask your worships to give me leave to 
tell a short story of something that happened in Seville, which 
comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly 
to tell it.” Don Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared 
to listen, and he begun thus : 

In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his 
relations had placed there as being out of his mind. He was 
a graduate of Osuna in canon law ; but even if he had been of 
Salamanca, it was the opinion of most people that he would 
have been mad all the same. This graduate, after some years 
of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane and in 
his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the Arch- 
bishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, 
to have him released from the misery in which he was living ; 
for by God’s mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, 
though his relations, in order to enjoy his property, kept him 
there, and, in spite of the truth, would make him out to be 
mad until his dying day. The Archbishop, moved by repeated 
sensible, well-written letters, directed one of his chaplains to 


CHAPTER L 


5 


make inquiry of the governor of the madhouse as to the truth 
of the licentiate’s statements, and to have an interview with 
the madman himself, and, if it should appear that he was in 
his senses, to take him out and restore him to liberty. The 
chaplain did so, and the governor assured him that the man 
was still mad, and that though he often spoke like a highly 
intelligent parson, he would in the end break out into non- 
sense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the sen- 
sible things he had said before, as might be easily tested by 
talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment, 
and obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for 
an hour or more, during the whole of which time he never 
uttered a word that was incoherent or absurd, but, on the con- 
trary, spoke so rationally that the chaplain was compelled to 
believe him to be sane. Among other things, he said the gov- 
ernor was against him, not to lose the presents his relations 
made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid intervals ; 
and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his large 
property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and 
threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turn- 
ing him from a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in 
such a way that he cast suspicion on the governor, and made 
his relations appear covetous and heartless, and himself so 
rational that the chaplain determined to take him away with 
him that the Archbishop might see him, and ascertain for him- 
self the truth of the matter. Yielding to this conviction, the 
worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in 
which the licentiate had entered the house given to him. The 
governor again bade him beware of what he was doing, as the 
licentiate was beyond a doubt still mad ; but all his cautions 
and warnings were unavailing to dissuade the chaplain from 
taking him away. The governor, seeing that it was the order 
of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the licentiate in 
his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon as 
he saw himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of 
the appearance of a madman, entreated the chaplain to permit 
him in charity to go and take leave of his comrades the mad- 
men. The chaplain said he would go with him to see what 
madmen there were in the house ; so they went upstairs, and 
with them some of those who were present. Approaching a 
cage in which there was a furious madman, though just at that 
moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said to him, ^ Brother, 


e 


DON QUIXOTE. 


think if you have any commands for me, for I am going home, 
as Grod has been pleased, in his infinite goodness and mercy, 
without any merit of mine, to restore me my reason. I am 
now cured and in my senses, for with God’s power nothing is 
impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him, for as he has 
restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will re- 
store you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you 
some good things to eat ; and be sure you eat them ; for I would 
have you know I am convinced, as one who has gone through 
it, that all this madness of ours comes of having the stomach 
empty and the brains full of wind. Take courage ! take cour- 
age ! for despondency in misfortune breaks down health and 
brings on death.’ 

To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a 
cage opposite that of the furious one was listening ; and rais- 
ing himself up from an old mat on which he lay stark naked, 
he asked in a loud voice who it was that was going away cured 
and in his senses. The licentiate answered, ^ It is I, brother, 
who am going ; I have now no need to remain here any longer, 
for which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has had so 
great mercy upon me.’ 

‘ Mind what you are saying, licentiate ; don’t let the devil 
deceive you,’ replied the madman, f Keep quiet, stay where you 
are, and you will save yourself the. trouble . of coming back.’ . 

‘ I know I am cured,’ returned the licentiate, ‘ and that I 
shall not have to go stations again.’ A .:. - 

^ You cured ! ’ said the madman ; fweU, we shall see ; God 
be with you ; but I swear to you hy .Jupiter, whose majesty I 
represent on earth, that for this crime alone, which Seville is 
committing to-day in releasing you from this house, and treat- 
ing you as if you were in your senses, I shall have to inflict 
such a punishment on it as will be remembered for ages and 
ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little licen- 
tiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer, 
who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able 
and am wont to threaten and lay waste the world ? But in 
one way only will I punish this ignorant town, and that is by 
not raining upon it, nor on any part of its district or territory, 
for three whole years, to be reckoned from the day and mo- 
ment when this threat is pronounced. Thou free, thou cured, 

^Andar es^aaones properly means to visit certain churches, for the pur- 
pose of offering up the prayers required to obtain indulgences. 


CHAPTER L 


7 


thou in thy senses ! and I mad, I disordered, I bound ! I will 
as soon think of sending rain as of hanging myself.’ 

Those present stood listening to the words and exclama- 
tions of the madman ; but our licentiate, turning to the chap- 
lain and seizing him by the hands, said to him, ^ Be not uneasy, 
sefior ; attach no importance:' to what this madman has said ; 
for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain, I, who am Nep- 
tune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often as it 
pleases me and may be needful.’ 

The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their 
laughter the chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, ‘ For 
all that, Senor Neptune, it will not do to vex Sehor Jupiter ; 
remain where you are, and some other day, when there is a 
better opportunity and more time, we will come back for you.’ 
So they stripped the licentiate, and he was left where he was j 
and that ’s the end of the story.” 

So that ’s the story, master barber,” said Don Quixote, 
which came in so pat to the purpose that you could not help 
telling it ? Master shaver, master shaver ! how blind is he 
who can not see through a sieve. ^ Is it possible that you do 
not know that comparisons of wit with wit, valor with valor, 
beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always odious and 
unwelcome ? I, master barber, am not Neptune the god of the 
waters, nor do I try to make any one takeme for an astute man, 
for I am not one. My only endeavor is to convince the world 
of the mistake it makes in not reviving in itself the happy 
time when the order of knight-errantry was in the field. But 
our depraved age does not deserve to enjoy such a blessing 
as those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took upon their 
shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, 
the succor of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the 
proud, and the recompense of the humble. With the knights 
of these days, for the most part, it is the damask, brocade, and 
rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain mail 
of their armor ; no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open field 
exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from 
head to foot ; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, without 
drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, 
as the knights-errant used to do ; no one now, issuing from the 
wood, penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, 
lonely shore of the sea — mostly, a tempestuous and stormy 

' Prov. 49. 


8 


DON QUIXOTE. 


one — and finding on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, 
mast, or tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart 
flings himself into it and commits himself to the wrathful 
billows of the deep sea, that one moment lift him up to heaven 
and the next plunge him into the depths ; and opposing his 
breast to the irresistible gale, finds himself, when he least ex- 
pects it, three thousand leagues and more away from the place 
where he embarked ; and leaping ashore in a remote and un- 
known land has adventures that deserve to be written, not on 
parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy, 
indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over cour- 
age, and theory over practice in arms, which flourished and 
shone only in the golden ages and in knights-errant. For tell 
me, who was more virtuous and more valiant than the famous 
Amadis of Gaul ? Who more discreet than Palmerin of Eng- 
land ? Who more gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco ? 
Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece ? Who more 
slashed or slashing than Don Belianis ? Who more intrepid 
than Perion of Gaul ? Who more ready to face danger than 
Felixmarte of Hircania ? Who more sincere than Esplandian ? 
Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace ? Who 
more bold than Bodamonte ? Who more prudent than King 
Sobrino ? Who more daring than Beinaldos ? Who more 
invincible than Boland ? and who more gallant and courteous 
than Buggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present 
day are descended, according to Turpin in his ‘ Cosmography ’ ? ^ 
All these knights, and many more that I could name, sehor 
curate, were knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. 
These, or such as these, I would have to carry out my plan, 
and in that case his Majesty would find himself well served 
and would save great expense, and the Turk would be left 
tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as the chap- 
lain does not take me away ; and if Jupiter, as the barber has 
told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I 
please. I say this that Master Basin may know that I under- 
stand him.^’ 

Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,” said the barber, 1 did not 
mean it in that way, and, so help me God, my intention was 
good, and your worship ought not to be vexed.” 

* The first nine are heroes of Spanish chivalry romance ; the others are 
from Boiardo and Ariosto. There never was any such book as Turpin’s 
Cosmography ; it was Ariosto hiniself who traced the descent of the dukes 
of Ferrara from Ruggiero. 


CHAPTER I. 


9 


As to whether I. ought to be vexed or not/’ returned Don 
Quixote, I myself am the best judge.” 

Hereupon the curate observed, I have hardly said a word 
as yet ; and I would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from 
what Don Quixote has said, that worries and works my con- 
science.” 

The senor curate has leave for more than that,” returned 
Don Quixote, so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleas- 
ant to have a doubt on one’s conscience.” 

Well then, with that permission,” said the curate, I say 
my doubt is that, all I can do, I can not persuade myself that 
the whole pack of knights-errant you, Senor Quixote, have 
mentioned, were really and truly persons of flesh and blood, 
that ever lived in the world ; on the contrary, I suspect it to 
be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and dreams told by men 
awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep.” 

“ That is another mistake,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ into which 
many have fallen who do not believe that there ever were such 
knights in the world, and I have often, with divers people and 
on divers occasions, tried to expose this almost universal error 
to the light of truthv Sometimes I have not been successful 
in my purpose, sometimes I have, supporting it upon the 
shoulders of the truth ; which truth is so clear that I can al- 
most say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who 
was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome 
though black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern 
in expression, sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to 
put it away from him ; and as I have depicted Amadis, so I 
could, I think, portray and describe all the knights-errant that 
are in all the histories in the world ; for by the perception I 
have that they were what their histories describe, and by the 
deeds they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is pos- 
sible, with the aid of sound philosophy, to deduce their 
features, complexion, and stature.” 

How big, in your worship’s opinion, may the giant Mor° 
gante have been, Senor Don Quixote ? ” asked the barber. 

“ With regard to giants,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ opinions 
differ as to whether there ever were any or not in the world ; 
but the Holy Scripture, which can not err by a jot from the 
truth, shows us that there were, when it gives us the history of 
that big Philistine, Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half 
in height, which is a huge size. Likewise, in the island of 


10 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Sicily, there have been found leg-bones and arm-bones so large 
that their size makes it plain that their owners were giants, and 
as tall as great towers ; geometry puts this fact beyond a doubt. 
But, for all that, I can not speak with certainty as to the size of 
Morgante, though I suspect he can not have been very tall ; and 
I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find in the history’ 
in which his deeds are particularly mentioned, that he frequently 
slept under a roof ; and as he found houses to contain him, it i^ 
clear that his bulk could not have been anything excessive.” 

“ That is true,” said the curate, and yielding to the enjoy- 
ment of hearing such nonsense, he asked him what was his 
notion of the features of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don 
Boland and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, for they 
were all knights-errant. 

As for Reinaldos,” replied Don Quixote, “ I venture to say 
that he was broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and 
somewhat prominent eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, 
and given to the society of thieves and scapegraces. With re- 
gard to Boland, or Botolando, or Orlando (for the histories call 
him by all these names), I am of opinion, and hold, that he was 
of middle height, broad-shouldered, rather bow-legged, swarthy- 
complexioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body and a severe ex- 
pression of countenance, a man of few words, but very polite 
and well-bred.” 

If Boland was not a more graceful person than your wor- 
ship has described,” said the curate, it is no wonder that the 
fair Lady Angelica rejected him and left him for the gayety, 
liveliness, and grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to 
whom she surrendered herself ; and she showed her Sense in fall- 
ing in love with the gentle softness of Medoro rather than the 
roughness of Boland.” 

That Angelica, senor curate,” returned Don Quixote, was 
a giddy damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the 
world as full of her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She 
treated with scorn a thousand gentlemen, men of valor and wis- 
dom, and took up with a smooth-faced sprig of a page, without 
fortune or fame, except such reputation for gratitude as the 
affection he bore his friend got for him.* The great poet who 

’ i.e. the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci. The account of the bones 
found in Sicily is in the Jardin de Flores Curiosos of Antonio de Tor- 
quemada, " the Spanish Mandeyille,” as his English translator calls him. 

* The friend was his master, Dardinel, beside whose body he received 
the wound of which he was cured by Angelica. 


CHAPTER I. 


11 


sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring to sing her 
adventures after her contemptible surrender (which probably 
were not over and above creditable), dropped her where he 
says: 

How she received the sceptre of Cathay, 

Some bard of defter quill may sing some day; * 

and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also 
called vates, that is to say diviners ; and its truth was made 
plain ; for since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented 
and sung her tears, and another famous and rare poet, a Cas- 
tilian, has sung her beauty.” ^ 

Tell me, Senor Don Quixote,” said the barber here, among 
all those who praised her, has there been no poet to write a 
satire on this Lady Angelica ? ” 

I can well believe,” replied Don Quixote, “ that if Sacri- 
pante or Roland had been poets they would have given the dam- 
sel a trimming j for it is naturally the way with poets who have 
been scorned and rejected by their ladies, whether fictitious or 
not, in short by those whom they select as the ladies of their 
thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires and libels — a ven- 
geance, to be sure, unworthy of generous hearts ; but up to the 
present I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the 
Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down.” 

Strange,” said the curate ; but at this moment they heard 
the housekeeper and the niece, who had previously withdrawn 
from the conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at 
the noise they all ran out. 

’ Cervantes misquotes Ariosto’s lines, which are : 

*' E deir India a Medor desse lo scettro, 

Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro.” 

Orlando Furioso^ xxx. 16. 

* The Andalusian was Barahona de Soto, who wrote the Primera parte 
de la Angelica (not L&grimas de Angilica^ as Cervantes calls it in chap- 
ter vi. Part I.). It appeared at Granada in 1586. The Castilian was Lope 
de Vega, whose Hermosura de formed the first part of his Rimas^ 

printed at Madrid in 1602. 


12 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER II. 

WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SAN- 

CHO PANZA HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE’s NIECE AND HOUSE- 
KEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS,. 

The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, 
and the barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper 
exclaiming to Sancho, who was striving to force his way in to 
see Don Quixote while they held the door against him, What 
does the vagabond want in this house ? Be olf to your own, 
brother, for it is you, and no one else, that delude my master, 
and lead him astray, and take him tramping about the country.’’ 

To which Sancho replied, Devil’s own housekeeper ! it is I 
who am deluded, and led astray, and taken tramping about the 
country, and not thy master ! He has carried me all over the 
world, and you are mightily mistaken. He enticed me away 
from home by a trick, promising me an island, which I am. 
still waiting for.” 

May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho,” said 
tlie niece ; what are islands ? Is it something to eat, glutton 
and gormandizer that thou art ? ” 

It is not something to eat,” replied Sancho, but some- 
thing to govern and rule, and better than four cities or four 
judgeships at court.” 

For all that,” said the housekeeper, ^^you don’t enter here,, 
you bag of mischief and sack of knavery ; go govern your house 
and dig your seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or 
shy lands.” ^ 

The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to 
the words of the three ; but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho 
should blab and blurt out a whole heap of mischievous stupid- 
ities, and touch upon points that might not be altogether to his 
credit, called to him and made the other two hold their tongues 
and let him come in. Sancho entered, and the curate and the 
barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of whose recovery they 
despaired when they saw how wedded he was to his crazy 
ideas, and how saturated with the nonsense of his unlucky 

' In the original insulas ni insulos. Insula^ the word always used in 
the Amadis^ and by Don Quixote, instead of isla^ is a puzzle to the niece 
and housekeeper. 


CHAPTER IL 


13 


chivalry ; and said the curate to the barber, You will see, 
gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our gentleman 
will be off once more for another flight.’^ 

I have no doubt of it,” returned the barber ; but I do 
not wonder so much at the madness of the knight as at the 
simplicity of the squire, who has such a firm belief in all that 
about the island, that I suppose all the exposures that could be 
imagined would not get it out of his head.” 

“ God help them,” said the curate ; and let us be on the 
look-out to see what comes of all these absurdities of the said 
knight and squire, for it seems as if they had both been cast 
in the same mould, and the madness of the master without the 
• simplicity of the man would not be worth a farthing.” 

That is true,” said the barber, and I should like very 
much to know what the pair are talking about at this mo- 
ment.” 

I promise you,” said the curate, “ the niece or the house- 
keeper will tell us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to for- 
get to listen.” 

Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with 
Sancho, and when they were alone he said to him, “ It grieves 
me greatly, Sancho, that thou shouldst have said, and sayest, 
that I took thee out of thy cottage, when thou knowest I did 
not remain in my house. We sallied forth together, we took 
the road together, we wandered abroad together ; we have had 
the same fortune and the same luck ; if they blanketed thee 
once, they belabored me a hundred times, and that is the only 
advantage I have of thee.” 

That was only reasonable,” replied Sancho, “ for, by 
what your worship says, misfortunes belong more properly to 
knights-errant than to their squires.” 

Thou art mistaken, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, according 
to the maxim quando caput dolet, etc.” 

I don’t understand any language but my own,” said 
Sancho. 

I mean to say,” said Don Quixote, that when the head 
suffers all the members suffer; and so, being thy lord and 
master, I am thy head, and thou a part of me as thou art my 
servant; and therefore any evil that affects or shall affect 
me should give thee pain, and what affects thee give pain to 
me.” 

It should be so,” said Sancho ; but when I was 


14 


DON QUIXOTE, 


blanketed as a member, my head was on the other side of the 
wall, looking on while I was flying through the air, and did 
not feel any pain whatever ; and if the members are obliged 
to feel the suffering of the head, it should be obliged to feeL 
their sufferings.” 

Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
that I did not suffer when they were blanketing thee ? If 
thou dost, thou must not say so or think so, for I felt more pain 
then in spirit than thou didst in body. But let us put that 
aside for the present, for we shall have opportunities enough 
for considering and settling the point ; tell me, Sancho my 
friend, what do they say about me in the village here ? What 
do the common people think of me ? What do the hidalgos ? • 
What do the Caballeros ? ^ What do they say of my valor ; 
of my achievements ; of my courtesy ? How do they treat 
the task I have undertaken in reviving and restoring to the 
world the now forgotten order of chivalry ? In short, Sancho, 

I would -have thee tell me all that has come to thine ears 
on this subject; and thou art to tell me, without adding any- 
thing to the good or taking away anything from the bad ; for 
it is the duty of loyal vassals to tell the truth to their lords 
just as it is and in its proper shape, not allowing flattery to 
add to it or any idle deference to lessen it. And I would 
have thee know, Sancho, that if the naked truth, undisguised 
by flattery, came to the ears of princes, times would be differ- 
ent, and other ages would be reckoned iron ages more than 
ours, which I hold to be the golden of these latter days. 
Profit by this advice, Sancho, and report to me clearly and 
faithfully the truth of what thou knowest touching what I 
have demanded of thee.” 

That I will do with all my heart, master,” replied Sancho, 
provided your worship will not be vexed at what I say, as 
you wish me to say it out in all its nakedness, without putting 
any more clothes on it than it came to my knowledge in.” 

I will not be vexed at all,” returned Don Quixote ; thou 
mayest speak freely, Sancho, and without any beating about 
the bush.” 

Well then,” said he, first of all, I have to tell you that 
the common people consider your worship a mighty great mad- 
man, and me no less a fool. The hidalgos say that, not keep- 
ing within the bounds of your quality of gentleman, you have 

’ i.e., the gentry by birth and the gentry by position. 


CHAPTER II. 


15 


Assumed the ^ Don/ ’ and made a knight of yourself at a jump, 
with four vine-stocks and a couple of acres of land, and never 
a shirt to your back.^ The cahalleros say they do not want to 
have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them, particularly 
squire hidalgos who polish their own shoes and darn their 
black stockings with green silk.” 

That,” said Don Quixote, does not apply to me, for I 
always go well dressed and never patched ; ragged I may be, 
very likely, but ragged more from the wear and tear of arms 
than of time.” ® 

As to your worship’s valor, courtesy, achievements, and 
task, there is a variety of opinions. Some say, ^mad but 
droll ; ’ others, ^ valiant but unlucky ; ’ others, ^ courteous but 
meddling;’ and then they go into such a number of things 
that they don’t leave a whole bone either in your worship or in 
myself.” 

“ J&ecollect, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, that wherever 
virtue exists in an eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or 
none of the famous men that have lived escaped being calum- 
niated by malice. Julius Caesar, the boldest, wisest, and brav- 
est of captains, was charged with being ambitious, and not 
particularly cleanly in his . dress, or pure in. his morals. Of 
Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great, they say 
that he wasi somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the 
many labors, it is said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of 
Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was whispered 
that he was over quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was 
lachrymose. So that, 0 Sancho, amongst all these calumnies 
against good men, mine may be let pass, since they are no more 
than thou hast said.” 

That ’s just where it is, body of my father ! ” returned 
Sancho. 

Is there more, then ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

There’s the tail to be skinned, yet,” ^ said Sancho ; all so 
far is cakes and fancy bread ; ® but if your worship wants to 
know all about the calumnies they bring against you, I will 

‘ In the time of Cervantes the title of Don was much more restricted 
than now-a-days, when it is by courtesy given to every one. 

* Literally, " with a rag behind and another in front.” 

® Alluding to the proverb (111) Hidalgo honrado antes roto que remen- 
dado — "The gentleman of honor, ragged sooner than patched.” 

< Prov. 52, meaning " don’t fancy you have done with it.” 

* Proverbial phrase 229. 


16 


DON QUIXOTE. 


fetch you one this instant who can tell you the whole of them 
without missing an atom ; for last night the son of Bartholo- 
mew Carrasco, who has been studying at Salamanca, came home 
after having been made a bachelor, and when I went to wel- 
come him, he told me that your worship’s history is already 
abroad in books, with the title of ^ The Ingenious Gentle- 
man Don Quixote of La Mancha ; ’ and he says they men- 
tion me in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, and the lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso too, and divers things that happened to 
us when we were alone ; so that I crossed myself in my won- 
der how the historian who wrote them down could have known 
them.” 

“ I promise thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, the author of 
our history will be some sage enchanter ; for to such nothing 
that they choose to write about is hidden.” 

What ! ” said Sancho, a sage and an enchanter ! Why, 
the bachelor Samson Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke 
of) says the author of the history is called Cid Hamet Beren- 
gena.” 

That is a Moorish name,” said Don Quixote. 

“ May be so,” replied Sancho ; for I have heard say that 
the Moors are mostly great lovers of berengenas.” ^ 

“ Thou must have mistaken the surname of this ^ Cid ’ — 
which means in Arabic ^ Lord ’ — Sancho,” observed Don 
Quixote. 

‘Wery likely,” replied Sancho, but if your worship wishes 
me to fetch the bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling.” 

“ Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend,” said Don 
Quixote, ‘‘ for what thou hast told me has amazed me, and I 
shall not eat a morsel that will agree with me until I have 
heard all about it.” 

“ Then I am off for him,” said Sancho ; and leaving his 
master he went in quest of the bachelor, with whom he re- 
turned in a short time, and, all three together, they had a very 
droll colloquy. 

^ Ber eng ena — the aubergine or egg plant. 


CHAPTER IIL 


17 


CHAPTER III. 

3F THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN 

DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAM- 
SON CARRASCO. 

Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for 
the bachelor Carrasco, from whom he was to hear how he him- 
self had been put into a book as Sancho said ; and he could not 
persuade himself that any such history could be in existence, 
for the blood of the enemies he had slain was not yet dry on 
the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to make out that 
his mighty achievements were going about in print.^ For all 
that, he fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, 
by the aid of magic, have given them to the press ; if a friend, 
in order to magnify and exalt them above the most famous ever 
achieved by any kiiight-errant ; if an enemy, to bring them to 
naught and degrade them below the meanest ever recorded of 
any low squire, though, as he said to himself, the achievements 
of squires never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact 
that such a history were in existence, it must necessarily, being 
the story of a knight-errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing, 
grand and true. With this he comforted himself somewhat, 
though it made him uncomfortable to think that the author was 
a Moor, judging by the title of Cid ; and that no truth was 
to be looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors, cheats, 
and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt with his 
love affairs in some indecorous fashion, that might tend to the 
discredit and prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso ; he would have had him set forth the fidelity and re- 
spect he had always observed towards her, spurning queens, 
empresses, and damsels of all sorts, and keeping in check the 

* The critics and commentators have been much troubled by the incon- 
sistency involved in making only a month elapse between the termination 
of the First Part and the resumption of the story, in which short space 
of time the first volume is supposed to have been written, translated, 
printed, and circulated, as we are afterwards told, to the extent of 12,000 
copies. Cervantes, however, himself saw the blunder, as we perceive 
here, and makes a happy use of it as evidence of enchantment in the 
knight’s eyes. Cervantes never troubled his head about such inconsist- 
encies. The action of the whole story of Don Quixote is supposed to 
extend over three or four months only, but according to dates it extends 
over twenty-five years, from 1589 to 1614. 

VOL. II. — 2 


18 


DON QUIXOTE. 


impetuosity of his natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up 
in these and divers other cogitations, he was found by Sancho 
and Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great courtesy. 

The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great 
bodily size, but he was a very great wag ; he was of a sallow 
complexion, but very sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and- 
twenty years of age, with a round face, flat nose, and a large 
mouth, all indications of a mischievous disposition and a love 
of fun and jokes ; and of this he gave a sample as soon as he 
saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and say- 
ing, Let me kiss your mightinesses hand, Senor Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that I wear, 
though I have no more than the first four orders, your worship 
is one of the most famous knights-errant that have ever been, 
or will be, all the world over. A blessing on Cid Hamet Ben- 
engeli, who has written the history of your great deeds, and a 
double blessing on that connoisseur who took the trouble of hav- 
ing it translated out of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar 
tongue for the universal entertainment of the people \ ” 

Don Quixote made him rise, and said, “ So, then, it is true 
that there is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage 
who wrote it ? 

‘‘ So true is it, senor, said Samson, that my belief is there 
are more than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in 
print this very day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valen- 
cia, where they haiVe been printed,- and moreover there is a re- 
port that it is being printed at Antwerp, and I am persuaded 
there will not be a country or language in which there will not 
be a translation of it.’^ ^ 

“ One of the things,’’ iiere observed Don Quixote, that 
ought to give most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is 
to find himself in his lifetime in print and in type, familiar 
in people’s mouths with a good name ; I say with a good name, 
for if it be the opposite, then there is no death to be compared 
to it.” 

^‘If it goes by good name and fame,” said the bachelor, 
“your worship alone bears away the palm from all the knights- 
errant ; for the Moor in his own language, and the Christian 
in his, have taken care to set before us your gallantry, your 

*No edition appeared at Barcelona in the lifetime of Cervantes, and no 
edition of the First Part by itself was ever printed at Antwerp. On the 
other hand, there were two editions at Brussels and one at Milan, of which 
Cervantes does not seem to have been aware when he wrote this. 


CHAPTER III. 


19 


Mgh courage in encountering dangers, your fortitude in ad- 
versity, your patience under misfortunes as well as wounds, 
the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your worship 
and my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso ’’ — 

“ I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona,’’ observed 
Sancho here ; “ nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso ; so here already the history is wrong.” 

That is not an objection of any importance,” replied 
Carrasco. 

Certainly not,” said Don Quixote ; but tell me, senor 
bachelor, what deeds of mine are they that are made most of 
in this history ? ” 

“ On that point,” replied the bachelor, opinions differ, as 
tastes do ; some swear by the adventure of the windmills that 
your worship took to be Briareuses and giants ; others by that 
of the fulling mills ; one cries up the description of the two 
armies that afterwards took the appearance of two droves of 
sheep ; another that of the dead body on its way to be buried 
at Segovia ; a third says the liberation of the galley slaves is 
the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the affair 
with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant 
Biscayan.” 

“ Tell me, senor bachelor,” said Sancho at this point, does 
the adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good 
Bocinante went hankering after dainties ? ” 

The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle,” replied Sam- 
son ; “ he tells all and sets down everything, even to the capers 
the worthy Sancho cut in the blanket.” 

I cut no capers in the blanket,” returned Sancho ; in the 
air I did, and more of them than I liked.” 

There is no human history in the world, I suppose,” said 
Don Quixote, that has not its ups and downs, but more than 
others such as deal with chivalry, for they can never be entirely 
made up of prosperous adventures.” 

For all that,” replied the bachelor, there are those who 
have read the history who say they would have been glad if the 
author had left out some of the countless cudgellings that were 
inflicted on Senor Don Quixote in various encounters.” 

That’s where the truth of the history comes in,” said Sancho. 

At the same time they might fairly have passed them over 
in silence,” observed Don Quixote ; for there is no need of 
recording events which do not change or affect the truth of 


20 


DON QUIXOTE. 


a history, if they tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. 
yEiieas was not in truth and earnest so pious as Virgil repre- 
sents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer describes him.” 

That is true,” said Samson ; but it is one thing to write as 
a poet, another to write as a historian ; the poet may describe 
or sing things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been ; 
but the historian has to write them down, not as they ought to 
have been, but as they were, without adding anything to the 
truth or taking anything from it.” 

Well then,” said Sancho, if this senor Moor goes in for 
telling the truth,^ no doubt among my master’s drubbings mine 
are to be found ; for they never took the measure of his wor- 
ship’s shoulders without doing the same for my whole body ; 
but I have no right to wonder at that, for, as my master him- 
self says, the members must share the pain of the head.” 

You are a sly dog, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; i’ faith, 
you have no want of memory when you choose to remember.” 

“ If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,” said 
Sancho, my weals would not let me, for they are still fresh 
on my ribs.” 

Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and don’t interrupt the 
bachelor, whom I entreat to go on and tell me all that is said 
about me in this same history.” 

And about me,” said Sancho, for they say, too, that I am 
one of the principal presonages in it.” 

Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,” said Samson. 

What ! Another word-catcher ! ” said Sancho ; if that ’s 
to be the way we shall not make an end in a lifetime.” 

May God shorten mine, Sancho,” returned the bachelor, 

if you are not the second person in the history, and there are 
even some who would rather hear you talk than the cleverest 
in the whole book ; though there are some, too, who say you 
showed yourself over-credulous in believing there was any pos- 
sibility in the government of that island offered you by Senor 
Don Quixote here.” 

“ There is still sunshine on the wall,” ^ said Don Quixote ; 
“ and when Sancho is somewhat more advanced in life, with 
the experience that years bring, he will be fitter and better 
qualified for being a governor than he is at present.” 

* Si es que se anda d decir verdades. 

* Prov. 220 — Aun hay sol en las hardas., i.e. ” the day is not yet over.” 
Las hardas are properly not the wall itself, hut a kind of coping of straw 
or fagots laid along the top of it. 


CHAPTER III. 


21 


By God, master/^ said Sancho, the island that I can not 
govern with the years I have, I ’ll not be able to govern with 
the years of Methiiselam ; the difficulty is that the said island 
keeps its distance somewhere, I know not where ; and not that 
there is any want of head in me to govern it.” 

Leave it to God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, for all will 
be well, and perhaps better than you think ; no leaf on the tree 
stirs but by God’s will.” 

That is true,” said Samson ; and if it be God’s will, there 
will not be any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for 
Sancho to govern.” 

I have seen governors in these parts,” said Sancho, that 
are not to be compared to my shoe-sole ; and for all that they 
are called ^ your lordship ’ and served on silver.” 

Those are not governors of islands,” observed Samson, 
but of other governments of an easier kind : -those that gov- 
ern islands must at least know grammar.” 

I could manage the gram well enough,” said Sancho ; but 
for the mar I have neither leaning nor liking, for I don’t know 
what it is ; ^ but leaving this matter of the government in God’s 
hands, to send me wherever it may be most to his service, I 
may tell you, senor bachelor Samson Carrasco, it has pleased 
me beyond measure that the author of this history should have 
spoken of me in such a way that what is said of me gives no 
offence ; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he had said any- 
thing about me that was at all unbecoming an old Christian, 
such as I am, the deaf would have heard of it.” 

That would be working miracles,” said Samson. 

Miracles or no miracles,” said Sancho, let every one mind 
how he speaks or writes about people, and not set down at 
random the first thing that comes into his head.” 

One of the faults they find with this history,” said the 
bachelor, is that its author inserted in it a novel called ^ The 
Ill-advised Curiosity ; ’ not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it 
is out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his 
worship Senor Don Quixote.” 

I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the 
baskets,” said Sancho.^ 

Then, I say,” said Don Quixote, the author of my history 

' In the original, Grama-tica — grama being an instrument for dressing 
flax, and therefore quite within Sancho’s comprehension. 

* Revolver herzas con capachos is, according to Covarrubias, a familiar 
phrase to express jumbling together things of different sorts. 


22 


DON QUIXOTE. 


was no sage, but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard 
and heedless way, set about writing it, let it turn out as it 
might, just as Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, used to do, 
who, when they asked him what he was painting, answered. 
What it may turn out.’’ Sometimes he would paint a cock 
in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to write alongside 
of it in Gothic letters, ^ This is a cock ; ’ and so it will be with 
my history, which will require a commentary to make it intel- 
ligible.” 

No fear of that,” returned Samson, for it is so plain that 
there is nothing in it to puzzle over ; the children turn its 
leaves, the young people read it, the grown men understand 
it, the old folk praise ; in a word, it is so thumbed,^ and read, 
and got by heart by people of all sorts, that the instant they 
see any lean hack, they say, ^ There goes Kocinante.’ And. 
those that are most given to reading it are the pages, for there 
is not a lord’s ante-chamber where there is not a ^ Don Quixote ’ 
to be found ; one takes it up if another lays it down ; this one 
pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In short, the said his- 
tory is the most delightful and least injurious entertainment 
that has been hitherto seen, for there is not to be found in the 
whole of it even the semblance of an immodest word, or a 
thought that is other than Catholic.” 

To write in any other way,” said Don Quixote, would not 
be to write truth, but falsehood, and historians who have re- 
course to falsehood, ought to be burned, like those who coin 
false money ; and I know not what could have led the author 
to have recourse to novels and irrelevant stories, when he had 
so much to write about in mine ; no doubt he must have gone 
by the proverb ^ with straw or with hay, etc.,’ ^ for by merely 
setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty pur- 
poses, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as large, 
or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up.* 
In fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is, that to 
write histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great 
judgment and a ripe understanding. To give expression to 
humor, and write in a strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift 

* In the original, trillada^ " thrashed,” as wheat is in Spain, by having 
the trilla^ a sort of harrow, dragged over it. 

* Prov. 166. In full it runs, "with straw or with hay the mattress is 
filled.” 

® El Tostado was Alonso de Madrigal, Bishop of Avila, a prolific 
author of devotional works in the reign of John II. 


CHAPTER III. 


23 


of great geniuses. The cleverest character in comedy is the 
clown, for he who would make people take him for a fool, 
must not be one. History is in a measure a sacred thing, for 
it should be true, and where the truth is, there God is, so far 
as truth is concerned; but notwithstanding this, there are 
some who write and fling books broadcast on the world as if 
they were fritters.’^ 

“ There is no book so bad but it has something good in 
it,” ^ said the bachelor. 

No doubt of that,” replied Don Quixote ; but it often 
happens that those who have acquired and attained a well- 
desired reputation by their writings, lose it entirely, or damage 
it in some degree, when they give them to the press.” 

The reason of that,” said Samson, is, that as printed 
works are examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen ; and 
the greater the fame of the writer, the more closely are they 
scrutinized. Men famous for their genius, great poets, illus- 
trious historians, a,re always, or most commonly, envied by those 
who take a particular delight and pleasure in criticising the 
writings of others, without having produced any of their own.” 

<^That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; /hfor there are 
many divines who are no good for the pulpit, but excellent in 
detecting the defects or excesses of those who. preach.” 

“ All that is true, Senor Don Quixote,” said Carrasco ; ^^but 
I wish such fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, 
and did not pay so much attention to the spots on the bright 
sun of the work they grumble at ; for if aliquando bonus dor- 
mitat Homerm^ they should remember how long he remained 
awake to shed the light of his work with as little shade as 
possible ; and perhaps it may be that what they find fault with 
may be moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face 
that bears them ; and so I say very great is the risk to which 
he who prints a book exposes himself, for of all impossibilities 
the greatest is to write one that will satisfy and please all 
readers.” 

That which treats of me must have pleased few,” said Don 
Quixote. 

Quite the contrary,” said the bachelor ; for, as stultorum 
infinitus est numerus, innumerable are those who have relished 
the said history ; but some have brought a charge against the 
author’s memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief 

» Prov. 128 . 


24 


DON QUIXOTE. 


was who stole Saneho’s Dapple ; for it is not stated there, but 
only to be inferred from what is set down, that he was stolen, 
and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted on the same ass, 
without any re-appearance of it.^ They say, too, that he for- 
got to state what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that 
he found in the valise in the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes 
to them again, and there are many who would be glad to know 
what he did with them, or what he spent them on, for it is one 
of the serious omissions of the work.’^ ^ 

Senor Samson, I am not in a humor now for going into 
accounts or explanations,’’ said Sancho ; for there ’s a sinking 
of the stomach come over me, and unless I doctor it with a 
couple of sups of the old stuff it will put me on the thorn of 
Santa Lucia.^ I have it at home, and my old woman is wait- 
ing for me ; after dinner I ’ll come back, and will answer you 
and all the world every question you may choose to ask, as well 
about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the hundred 
crowns ; ” and without another word or waiting for a reply he 
made off home. 

Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and 
do penance with him.'* The bachelor accepted the invitation 
and remained, a couple of young pigeons were added to the or- 
dinary fare, at dinner they talked chivalry, Carrasco fell in with 
his host’s humor, the banquet came to an end, they took their 
afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and the previous conversa- 
tion was resumed. 

* This passage has somewhat puzzled those who were unaware of the 
difference in text between the first and the subsequent editions. Cervantes 
is here speaking of the first edition, in which (as has been already pointed 
out, chapter xxiii.. Part I.) no account of the theft of the ass is given. 
From this we gather that Cervantes himself had nothing to do with the 
attempt made in the second edition to rectify the blunder, for had it been 
his own work he certainly would not have ignored it as he does here. 

2 He is here ridiculing what he considers the hypercriticism of those 
readers who make a fuss about such trifling slips. 

^ A slang phrase for being weak for want of food. 

^ Equivalent to our phrase, " stay and take pot-luck.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

I3f WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO 
THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON 
CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOW- 
ING AND MENTIONING. 

Sancho came back to Don Quixote’s house, and returning to 
the late subject of conversation, he said, As to what Senor 
Samson said, that he would like to know by whom, or how, or 
when my ass was stolen, I say in reply that the same night we 
went into the Sierra Morena, flying from the Holy Brother- 
hood after that unlucky adventure of the galley slaves, and the 
other of the corpse that was going to Segovia, my master and 
I ensconced ourselves in a thicket, and there, my master lean- 
ing on his lance, and I seated on my Dapple, battered and 
weary with the late frays we fell asleep as if it had been on 
four feather beds ; and I in particular slept so sound, that, 
whoever he was, he was able to come and prop me up on four 
stakes, which he put under the four corners of the pack-saddle 
in such a way that he left me mounted on it, and took away 
Dapple from under me without my feeling it.” 

That is an easy matter,” said Don Quixote, and it is no 
new occurrence, for the very same thing happened to Sacri- 
pante, when, at the siege of Albracca, the famous thief called 
Brunello, by the same contrivance, took his horse from between 
his legs.” ^ 

Day came,” continued Sancho, and the moment I 
stretched myself the stakes gave way and I fell to the ground 
with a mighty come down ; I looked about for the ass, but 
could not see him ; the tears rushed to my eyes and I raised 

* *' La sella su quattro aste gli. suffolse, 

E di sotto il destrier nudo gli tolse.” 

Orlando Furioso^ xxvii. 84. 

But the idea was Boiardo’s ; 

*'E la cingia disciolse presto presto, 

E pose il legno sotto de lo arcione.” 

Orlando Innamorato^ II. v. 40. 

It seems plain from this that Cervantes meant to introduce into the First 
Part a burlesque of the theft of Sacripante’s horse, with Gines de Pasa- 
monte playing the part of Brunello. It would have been an incident 
exactly in the spirit of the book. 


26 


DON QUIXOTE, 


such a lamentation that, if the author of our history has not 
put it in, he may depend upon it he has left out a good thing. 
Some days after, I know not how many, travelling with her 
ladyship the Princess Micomicona, I saw my ass, and mounted 
upon him, in the dress of a gypsy, was that Gines de Pasa- 
monte, the great rogue and rascal that my master and I freed 
from the chain.” 

That is not where the mistake is,” replied Samson ; it is, 
that before the ass has turned up, the author speaks of Sancho 
as being mounted on it.” 

“ I don’t know what to say to that,” said Sancho, unless 
that the historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a 
blunder of the printer’s.” 

No doubt that ’s it,” said Samson ; but what became of 
the hundred crowns ? ” 

“ They vanished,” said Sancho ; “ I spent them for my own 
good, and my wife’s, and my children’s, and it is they 
have made my wife bear so patiently all my wanderings on 
highways and byways, in the service of my master, Don Qui- 
xote ; for if after all this time I had come back to the house 
without a rap and without the ass, it would have been a poor 
look-out for me ; and if any one wants to know anything more 
about me, here I am, ready to answer the king himself in per- 
son ; and it is no affair of any one’s, whether I took or did not 
take, whether I spent or did not spend ; for if the whacks that 
were given me in these journeys were to be paid for in money, 
even if they were valued at no more than four maravedis 
apiece, another hundred crowns would not pay me for half of 
them. Let each look to himself and not try to make out white 
black, and black white ; for each of us is as God made him, ay, 
and often worse.” ^ 

I will take care,” said Carrasco, to impress upon the 
author of the history that, if he prints it again, he must not 
forget what worthy Sancho has said, for it will raise it a good 
span higher than it is.’^ . 

Is there anything else to correct in the history, senor bach- 
elor ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

‘^No doubt there is,” replied he; ^^but not anything that 
will be of the same importance as those I have mentioned.” 

“ Does the author promise a second part at all ? ” said Don 
Quixote. 

* Frov. 80 . 


CHAPTER IV. 


27 


‘‘He does promise one/^ replied Samson; “but he says he 
has not found it, nor does he know who has got it ; and we 
can not say whether it will appear or not ; and so, on that head, 
as some say that no second part has ever been good, and others 
that enough has been already written about Don Quixote, it is 
thought there will be no second part ; though some, who are 
jovial rather than saturnine, say, ‘ Let us have more Quixota- 
des, let Don Quixote charge and Sancho chatter, and no mat- 
ter what it may turn out, we shall be satisfied with that.” 

“ And what does the author mean to do ? ” said Don 
Quixote. 

“ What ? ” replied Samson ; “ why, as soon as he has found 
the history which he is now searching for with extraordinary 
diligence, he will at once give it to the press, moved more by 
the profit that may accrue to him from doing so than by any 
thought of praise.” 

Whereat Sancho observed, “ The author looks for money 
and profit, does he ? It will be a wonder if he succeeds, for 
it will be only hurry, hurry, with him, like the tailor on Easter 
Eve ; and works done in a hurry are never finished as perfectly 
as they ought to be. Let Master Moor, or whatever he is, pay 
attention to what he is doing, and I and my master will give 
him as much grouting^ veady to his hand, in the way of ad- 
ventures and accidents of all sorts, as would make up not only 
one second part, but a hundred. The goodman fancies, no 
doubt, that we are fast asleep in the straw here, but let him 
hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is we 
go lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my 
advice, we would be now afield, redressing outrages and right- 
ing wrongs, as is the use and custom of good knights-errant.” 

Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing 
of Rocinante fell upon their ears, which neighing Don Quixote 
accepted as a happy omen, and he resolved to make another 
sally in three or four days from that time. Announcing his 
intention to the bachelor, he asked his advice as to the quarter 
in which he ought to commence his expedition, and the bache- 
lor replied that in his opinion he ought to go to tfie kingdom 
of Aragon, and the city of Saragossa, where there were to be 
certain solemn j oustings at the festival of St. George,* at 

’ Ripio^ small stones and mortar used in building to fill the interstices 
between the large stones. 

* In commemoration of the battle of Alcoraz, where in 1096 Pedro X 
of Aragon, with the help of St. George, defeated the Moors. 


28 


BON QUIXOTB. 


which he might win renown above all the knights of Aragon, 
which would be winning it above all the knights of the world. 
He commended his very praiseworthy and gallant resolution, 
but admonished him to proceed with greater caution in en- 
countering dangers, because his life did not belong to him, but 
to all those who had need of him to protect and aid them in 
their misfortunes. 

“ There ’s where it is, what I abominate, Sehor Samson,’’ 
said Sancho here ; my master will attack a hundred armed 
men as a greedy boy would half a dozen melons. Body of the 
world, sehor bachelor ! there is a time to attack and a time to 
retreat, and it is not to be always ^ Santiago, and close Spain ! ’ ^ 
Moreover, I have heard it said (and I think by my master 
himself, if I remember rightly) that the mean of valor lies 
between the extremes of cowardice and rashness ; and if that 
be so, I don’t want him to fly without having good reason, or 
to attack when the odds ^ make it better not. But, above all 
things, I warn my master that if he is to take me with him it 
must be on the condition that he is to do all the fighting, and 
that I am not to be called upon to do anything except what 
concerns keeping him clean and comfortable ; in this I will dance 
attendance on him readily ; but to expect me to draw sword, 
even against rascally churls of the hatchet and hood, is idle. 
I don’t set up to be a fighting man, Senor Samson, but only 
the best and most loyal squire that ever served knight-errant ; 
and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my many 
faithful services, is pleased to give me some island of the many 
his worship says one may stumble on in these parts, I will 
take it as a great favor ; and if he does not give it to me, I 
was born like every one else, and a man must not live in 
dependence on any one except God; and what is more, my 
bread will taste as well, and perhaps even better, without a 
government than if I were a governor ; and how do I know 
but that in these governments the devil may have prepared 
some trip for me, to make me lose my footing and fall and 
knock my grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I 
mean to die. But for all that, if Heaven were to make me a 
fair offer of an island or something else of the kind, without 
much trouble and without much risk, I am not such a fool as 

* The old Spanish war-cry, Santiago y cierra Espana ! 

^ Demasia — literally, "excess.” Hartzenbusch would add "of the 
risk,” or substitute " occasion,” but I venture to think the word by itself 
may be taken in the sense I have given. 


CHAPTER IV. 


29 


to refuse it ; for they say, too, ^ when they offer thee a heifer, 
run with a halter j ’ and ‘ when good luck comes to thee, take 
it in.’ ” ^ 

Brother Sancho,” said Carrasco, “ you have spoken like a 
professor ; but, for all that, put your trust in God and in Senor 
Don Quixote, for he will give you a kingdom, not to say an 
island.” 

“ It is all the same, be it more or be it less,” replied 
Sancho ; though I can tell Senor Carrasco that my master 
would not throw the kingdom he might give me into a sack all 
in holes ; for I have felt my own pulse and I find myself 
sound enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and I 
have before now told my master as much.” 

Take care, Sancho,” said Samson ; honors change man- 
ners,^ and perhaps when you find yourself a governor you 
won’t know the mother that bore you.” 

That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches,” 
said Sancho,^ not of those who have the fat of an old Chris- 
tian four fingers deep on their souls, as I have. Nay, only look 
at my disposition, is that likely to show ingratitude to any one ? ” 

God grant it,” said Don Quixote ; “ we shall see when the 
government comes ; and I seem to see it already.” 

He then begged the bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the 
favor of composing some verses for him conveying the farewell 
he meant to take of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and to see 
that a letter of her name was placed at the beginning of each 
line, so that, at the end of the verses, Dulcinea del Toboso ” 
might be read by putting together the first letters. The bach- 
elor replied that although he was not one of the famous poets 
of Spain, who were, they said, only three and a half,^ he would 
not fail to compose the required verses ; though he saw a great 
difficulty in the task, as the letters which made up the name 
were seventeen ; so, if he made four ballad stanzas of four lines 
each, there would be a letter over, and if he made them of five, 
what they called decimas or redondillas,® there were three let- 

» Provs. 236 and 22. ® Prov. 158. 

^Literally, " among the mallows.” 

^ There is some difference of opinion as to who were the three poets and 
a half allowed to be famous by Samson Carrasco ; but probably Cervantes 
only intended a malicious little joke at the expense of the whole swarm of 
poets of his day, and their mutual admiration cliques. 

* The decima is properly a stanza of ten eight-syllable lines ; in the re~ 
dondilla., which is more commonly a four-line stanza, the last line rhymes 
with the first. The acrostic was one of the poetical frivolities of the day. 


30 


DON QUIXOTE, 


ters short; nevertheless he would try to drop a letter as well as 
he could, so that the name “ Dulcinea del Toboso ’’ might be got 
into four ballad stanzas. 

It must be, by some means or other,’^ said Don Quixote, 
for unless the name stands there plain and manifest, no woman 
would believe the verses were made for her.^’ 

They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take 
place in three days from that time. Don Quixote charged the 
bachelor to keep it a secret, especially from the curate and 
Master Nicholas, and from his niece and the housekeeper, lest 
they should prevent the execution of his praiseworthy and val- 
iant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and then took his leave, 
charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or evil fortunes 
whenever he had an opportunity ; and thus they bade each other 
farewell, and Sancho went away to make the necessary prepara- 
tions for their expedition. 


CHAPTEK V. 

OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BE- 
TWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND 

OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED. 

The translator of this history, when he comes to write this 
fifth chapter, says that he considers it apocryphal, because in 
it Sancho Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might 
have been expected from his limited intelligence, and says 
things so subtle that he does not think it possible he could 
have conceived them ; however, desirous of doing what his 
task imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it untrans- 
lated, and therefore he went on to say : 

Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife 
noticed his happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made 
her ask him, What have you got, Sancho friend, that you are 
so glad ? ” 

To which he replied, Wife, if it were God’s will, I should 
be very glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself.” 

‘‘ I don’t understand you, husband,” said she, and I don’t 
know what you mean , by saying you -would be glad, if it were 
God’s will, not to be well pleased ; for, fool as I am, I don’t 
know how one can find pleasure in not having it.” 



“WHAT HAVE YOU GOT. SANCHO FRIEND, THAT YOU ARE SO GLADr” 


^ • 













CHAPTER V. 


31 


Hark ye, Teresa,’’ replied Sancho, I am glad because I 
have made up my mind to go back to the service of my master 
Don Quixote, who means to go out a third time to seek for ad- 
ventures ; and I am going with him again, for my necessities 
will have it so, and also the hope that cheers me with the 
thought that I may find another hundred crowns like those we 
have spent ; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and 
the children ; and if God would be pleased to let me have my 
daily bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out into 
the byways and cross-roads — and he could do it at small cost 
by merely willing it — it is clear my happiness would be more 
solid and lasting, for the happiness I have is mingled with sor- 
row at leaving thee ; so that I was right in saying I would be 
glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well pleased.” 

Look here, Sancho,” said Teresa ; ever since you joined 
on to a knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that 
there is no understanding you.” 

“ It is enough that God understands me, wife,” replied San- 
cho ; for he is the understander of all things ; that will do ; 
but mind, sister, you must look to Dapple carefully for the next 
three days, so that he may be fit to take arms ; double his feed 
and see to the pack-saddle and other harness, for it is not to 
a wedding we are bound, but to go round the world, and play 
at give and take with giants and dragons and monsters, and 
hear hissings and roarings and bellowings and bowlings ; and 
even all this would be lavender, if we had not to reckon with 
Yanguesans and enchanted Moors.” 

“ I know well enough, husband,” said Teresa, that squires- 
errant don’t eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be al- 
ways praying to our Lord to deliver you speedily from all 
that hard fortune.” 

I can tell you, wife,” said Sancho, if I did not expect to 
see myself governor of an island before long, I would drop 
down dead on the spot.” 

Nay, then, husband,” said Teresa, let the hen live, though 
it be with her pip ; ^ live, and let the devil take all the govern- 
ments in the world ; you came out of your mother’s womb 
without a government, you have lived until now without a gov- 
ernment, and when it is God’s will you will go, or be carried, 
to your grave without a government. How many there are in 
the world who live without a government, and continue to live 
* Prov. 101. 


32 


DON QUIXOTE. 


all the same, and are reckoned in the number of the people. 
The best sauce in the world is hunger,^ and as the poor are 
never without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, 
Sancho, if by good luck you should find yourself with some 
government, don’t forget me and your children. Bemember 
that Sanchico is now full fifteen, and it is right he should go to 
school, if his uncle the abbot has a mind to have him trained 
for the Church. Consider, too, that your daughter Mari-Sancha 
will not die of grief if we marry her ; for I have my suspicions 
that she is as eager to get a husband as you to get a govern- 
ment ; and, after all, a daughter looks better ill married than 
well kept.” 

By my faith,” replied Sancho, if God brings me to get 
any sort of a government, I intend, wife, to make such a high 
match for Mari-Sancha that there will be no approaching her 
without calling her ^ my lady.’ ” 

“ l!^ay, Sancho,” returned Teresa, ‘‘ marry her to her equal, 
that is the safest plan ; for if you put her out of wooden clogs 
into high-heeled shoes, out of her gray flannel petticoat into 
hoops and silk gowns, out of the plain ^ Marica ’ and ^ thou,’ 
into ^ Dona So-and-so’ and ^ my lady,’ the girl won’t know 
where she is, and at every turn she will fall into a thousand 
blunders that will show the thread of her coarse homespun 
stuff.” 

Tut, you fool,” said Sancho ; it will be only to practise it 
for two or three years ; and then dignity and decorum will fit 
her as easily as a glove ; and if not, what matter ? Let her 
be ‘ my lady,’ and never mind what happens.” 

“ Keep to your own station, Sancho,” replied Teresa ; don’t 
try to raise yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that 
says, ‘ wipe the nose of your neighbor’s son, and take him into 
your house.’ ^ A fine thing it would be, indeed, to marry our 
Maria to some great count or grand gentleman, who, when the 
humor took him, would abuse her and call her clown-bred and 
clodhopper’s daughter and spinning wench. I have not been 
bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I can tell you, 
husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marry- 
ing her to my care ; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho’s son, 
a stout, sturdy young fellow that we know, and I can see he 
does not look sour at the girl ; and with him, one of our own 
sort, she will be well married, and we shall have her always 
'Prov. 109. * Prov. 113. 


CHAPTER r. 


33 


under our eyes, and be all one family, parents and children, 
grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and blessing of 
God will dwell among us ; so don’t you go marrying her in 
those courts and grand palaces where they won’t know what to 
make of her, or she what to make of herself.” 

Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,” said Sancho, what 
do you mean by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep ma 
from marrying my daughter to one who will give me grand 
children that will be called ‘ your lordship ’ ? Look ye, Teresa, 
I have always heard my elders say that he who does not know 
how to take advantage of luck when it comes to him, has no 
right to complain if it gives him the go-by ; and now that it is 
knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it out ; let us go 
with the favoring breeze that blows upon us.” (It is this sort 
of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the trans- 
lator of the history say he considered this chapter apocryphal.) 

Don’t you see, you animal,” continued Sancho, “ that it will 
be well for me to drop into some profitable government that 
will lift us out of the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I 
like ; and you yourself will find yourself cpJled ^ Dona Teresa 
Panza,’ and sitting in church on a fine carpet and cushions and 
draperies, in spite and in defiance of all the born ladies of the 
town ? No, stay as you are, growing neither greater nor less, 
like a tapestry figure — Let us say no more about it, for San- 
chia shall be a countess, say what you will.” 

Are you sure of all you say, husband ? ” replied Teresa. 

Well, for all that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my 
daughter will be her ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess 
or a princess of her, but I can tell you it will not be with my 
will and consent. I was always a lover of equality, brother, 
and I can’t bear to see people give themselves airs without any 
right. They called me Teresa at my baptism, a plain, simple 
name, without any additions or tags or fringes of Dons or 
Donas ; Cascajo was my father’s name, and as I am your wife, 
I am called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to be called 
Teresa Cascajo ; but ^ kings go where laws like,’ ^ and I am con- 
tent with this name without having the ^ Don ’ put on top of 
it to make it so heavy that I can not carry it; and I don’t want 
to make people talk about me when they see me go dressed like 
a countess or governor’s wife ; for they will say at once, ^ See 

‘ Teresa inverts the proverb after Sancho’s fashion; v. Note 1, vol i 
chap, xlv., page 386. 

Vol. II. — 3 


34 


DON QUIXOTE, 


what airs the slut gives herself ! Only yesterday she was always 
spinning flax, and used to go to Mass with the tail of her petti- 
coat over her head instead of a mantle, and there she goes to- 
day in a hooped gown with her brooches and airs, as if we did n’t 
know her ! ’ If God keeps me in my seven senses, or five, or 
whatever number I have, I am not going to bring myself to 
such a pass ; go you, brother, and be a government or an island 
man, and swagger as much as you like ; for by the soul of my 
mother, neither my daughter nor I are going to stir a step from 
our village ; a respectable woman should have a broken leg and 
keep at home ; and to be busy at something is a virtuous dam- 
sel’s holiday ; i be off to your adventures along with your Don 
Quixote, and leave us to our misadventures, for God will mend 
them for us according as we deserve it. I don’t know, I ’m sure, 
who fixed the ^ Don ’ to him, what neither his father nor grand- 
father ever had.” 

I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body ! ” 
said Sancho. “ God help thee, woman, what a lot of things 
thou hast strung together, one after the other, without head or 
tail ! What have Cascajo, and the brooches and the proverbs 
and the airs, to do with what I say ? Look here, fool and dolt 
(for so I may call you, when you don’t understand my words, 
and run away from good fortune), if I had said that my 
daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roam- 
ing the world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do,^ you 
would be right in not giving way to my will ; but if in an in- 
stant, in less than the twinkling of an eye, I put the ^ Don ’ and 
‘ my lady ’ on her back, and take her out of the stubble, and 
place her under the canopy, on a dais, and on a couch, with 
more velvet cushions than all the Almohades of Morocco ever 
had in their family,® w'hy won’t you consent and fall in 
with my wishes ? ” 

“ Do you know why, husband ? ” replied Teresa ; because 

* Prove . 148 and 91. 

2 The Infanta Urraca was the daughter of Ferdinand I. of Castile and 
Leon, who, finding herself omitted in her father’s will, threatened to dis- 
grace him by taking to a disreputable life. He in consequence altered his 
will and left her the city of Zamora, adding his curse upon him who should 
attempt to take it from her ; a curse which shortly afterwards took effect 
when her brother Sancho, besieging the city, was treacherously slain by 
Vellido Dolfos. The story is the subject of two ballads — " Morir vos 
queredes, padre,” and " Acababa el rey Fernando.” 

^Almohada is a cushion, which Sancho supposes to have had something 
to do with the origin of the sect of the Almohades. 


CHAPTER V. 


35 


of the proverb that says ‘ who covers thee, discovers thee.’ * 
At the poor man people only throw a hasty glance ; on the 
rich man they fixed their eyes ; and if the said rich man was 
once on a time poor, it is then there is the sneering and the 
tattle and spite of backbiters ; and in the streets here they 
swarm as thick as bees.” 

Look here, Teresa,” said Sancho, and listen to what I am 
now going to say to you ; maybe you never heard it in all your 
life ; and I do not give my own notions, for what I am about 
to say are the opinions of his reverence the preacher, who 
preached in this town last Lent, and who said, if I remember 
rightly, that all things present that our eyes behold, bring 
themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on our 
memory much better and more forcibly than things past.” 
(These observations which Sancho makes here are the other 
ones on account of which the translator says he regards this 
chapter as apocryphal, inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho’s 
capacity.) Whence it arises,” he continued, “ that when we 
see any person well dressed and making a figure with rich 
garments and retinue of servants, it seems to lead and impel 
us perforce to respect him, though memory may at the same 
moment recall to us some lowly condition in which we have 
seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty or low 
birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence ; while 
the only thing that has any existence is what we see before us ; 
and if this person whom fortune has raised from his original 
lowly state (these were the very words the padre used) to his 
present height of prosperity, be well bred, generous, courteous 
to all, without seeking to vie with those whose nobility is of 
ancient date, depend upon it, Teresa, no one will remember 
what he was, and every one will respect what he is, except 
indeed the envious, from whom no fair fortune is safe.” 

I do not understand you, husband,” replied Teresa ; do as 
you like, and don’t break my head with any more speechifying 
and rhetoric ; and if you have revolved to do what you say ” — 

Kesolved, you should say, woman,” said Sancho, not 
revolved.” 

Don’t set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,” said 
Teresa ; I speak as God pleases, and don’t deal in out-of-the- 
way phrases ; and I say if you are bent upon having a govern- 
ment, take your son Sancho with you, and teach him from this 

»Prov. 62. 


36 


DON QUIXOTE. 


time on how to hold a government ; for sons ought to inherit 
and learn the trades of their fathers.” 

As soon as I have the government,” said Sancho, “ I will 
send for him by post, and I will send thee money, of which I 
shall have no lack, for there is never any want of people to 
lend it to governors when they have not got it ; and do thou 
dress him so as to hide what he is and make him look what he 
is to be.” 

You send the money,” said Teresa, and I ’ll dress him up 
for you as fine as you please.” 

Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess,” 
said Sancho. 

The day that I see her a countess,” replied Teresa, ‘‘ it will 
be the same to me as if I was burying her ; but once more I say 
do as you please, for we women are born to this burden of 
being obedient to our husbands, though they be blockheads ; ” 
and with this she began to weep in downright earnest, as if 
she already saw Sanchica dead and buried. 

Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make 
her a countess, he would put it off as long as possible. Here 
their conversation came to an end, and Sancho went back to 
see Don Quixote, and make arrangements for their departure.* 


CHAPTEK VI. 

OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS 

NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER ; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT 

CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY. 

While Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the 
above irrelevant conversation, Don Quixote’s niece and house- 
keeper were not idle, for by a thousand signs they began to 
perceive that their uncle and master meant to give them the 
slip for the third time, and once more betake himself to his, 
for them, ill-errant chivalry. They strove by all the means in 
their power to divert him from such an unlucky scheme ; but 
it was all preaching in the desert and hammering cold iron. 

Nevertheless, among many other representations made to 

^ There can be very little doubt, as Pellicer points out, that Moli^re took 
the scene between Monsieur Jourdain and bis wife in act iii. of the Bouv 
geois Gentilhomme from this dialogue between Sancho and Teresa. 


CHAPTER VI. 


37 


him, the housekeeper said to him, In truth, master, if you do 
not keep still and stay quiet at home, and give over roaming 
mountains and valleys like a troubled spirit, looking for what 
they say are called adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I 
shall have to make complaint to God and the king with loud 
supplication to send some remedy/’ 

To which Don Quixote replied, What answer God will give 
to your complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what hi^ 
Majesty will answer either ; I only know that if I were king I 
should decline to answer the numberless silly petitions they 
present every day ; for one of the greatest among the many 
troubles kings have is being obliged to listen to all and answer 
all, and therefore I should be sorry that any affairs of mine 
should worry him.” 

Whereupon the housekeeper said, Tell us, sefior, at his 
Majesty’s court are there no knights ? ” 

There are,” replied Don Quixote, “ and plenty of them ; 
and it is right there should be, to set off the dignity of the 
prince, and for the greater glory of the king’s majesty.” 

Then might not your worship,” said she, be one of those 
that, without stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his 
court ? ” 

Recollect, my friend,” said Don Quixote, not all knights 
can be courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor 
need they be. There must be all sorts in the world ; and 
though we may be all knights, there is a great difference 
between one and another ; for the courtiers, without quitting 
their chambers, or the threshold of the court, range the world 
over by looking at a map, without its costing them a farthing, 
and without suffering heat or cold, hunger or thirst ; but we, 
the true knights-errant, measure the whole earth with our own 
feet, exposed to the sun, to the cold, to the air, to the inclem- 
encies of heaven, by day and night, on foot and on horseback ; 
nor do we only know enemies in pictures, but in their own 
real shapes ; and at all risks and on all occasions we attack 
them, without any regard to childish points or rules of single 
combat, whether one has or has not a shorter lance or sword, 
whether one carries relics or any secret contrivance about him, 
whether or not the sun is to be divided and portioned out,' and 

* One of the most important of the preliminaries in a formal combat was 
placing the men, so that neither should be at a disadvantage by having the 
sun in his eyes. So in the Poem of the Cid, the marshals portion out the 
sun to the Cid’s champions and the Infantes of Carrion. 


38 


DON QUIXOTE. 


other niceties of the sort that are observed in set combats of 
man to man, that you know nothing about, but I do. And you 
must know besides, that the true knight-errant, though he may 
see ten giants, that not only touch the clouds with their heads 
but pierce them, and that go, each of them, on two tall towers 
by way of legs, and whose arms are like the masts of mighty 
ships, and each eye like a great mill-wheel, and glowing 
brighter than a glass furnace, must not on any account be 
dismayed by them. On the contrary, he must attack and fall 
upon them with a gallant bearing and a fearless heart, and, if 
possible, vanquish and destroy them, even though they have 
for armor the shells of a certain fish, that they say are harder 
than diamonds, and in place of swords wield trenchant blades 
of Damascus steel, or clubs studded with spikes also of steel, 
such as I have more than once seen. All this I say, house- 
keeper, that you may see the difference there is between the 
one sort of knight and the other ; and it would be well if there 
were no prince who did not set a higher value on this second, 
or more properly speaking first, kind of knights-errant ; for, as 
we read in their histories, there have been some among them 
who have been the salvation, not merely of one kingdom, but 
of many.’’ 

Ah, senor,” here exclaimed the niece, remember that all 
this you are saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction ; 
and their histories, if indeed they were not burned, would de- 
serve, each of them, to have a sanbenito ’ put on it, or some 
mark by which it might be known as infamous and a corrupter 
of good manners.” 

“ By the G-od that gives me life,” said Don Quixote, if thou 
wert not my full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I 
would inflict a chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou 
hast uttered that all the world should ring with. What ! can 
it be that a young hussy that hardly knows how to handle a 
dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her tongue and criticise the 
histories of knights-errant ! What would Senor Amadis say if 
he heard of such a thing ? He, however, no doubt would for- 
give thee, for he was the most humble-minded and courteous 
knight of his time, and moreover a great protector of damsels ; 
but some there are that might have heard thee, and it would 
not have been well for thee in that case ; for they are not all 

* The garment worn by penitents, who have been tried by the Inquisi* 
tion and have confessed. 


CHAPTER VI. 


39 


courteous or mannerly ; some are ill-conditioned scoundrels ; 
nor is it every one that calls himself a gentleman, that is so in 
all respects ; * some are gold, others pinchbeck, and all look 
like gentlemen, but not all can stand the touchstone of truth. 
There are men of low rank who strain themselves to bursting 
to pass for gentlemen, and high gentlemen who, one would 
fancy, were dying to pass for men of low rank ; the former 
raise themselves by their ambition or by their virtues, the 
latter debase themselves by their lack of spirit or by their 
vices ; and one has need of experience and discernment to dis- 
tinguish these two kinds of gentlemen, so much alike in name 
and so different in conduct.’^ 

God bless me ! said the niece, that you should know so 
much, uncle — enough, if need be, to get up into a pulpit and 
go preach in the streets — and yet that you should fall into 
a delusion so great and a folly so manifest as to try to make 
yourself out vigorous when you are old, strong when you are 
sickly, able to put straight what is crooked when you yourself 
are bent by age, and, above all, a caballero when you are not 
one ; for though gentlefolk ^ may be so, poor men are nothing 
of the kind ! ’’ 

There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece,’’ re- 
turned Don Quixote, and I could tell you somewhat about 
birth that would astonish you ; but not to mix up things 
humane and divine, I refrain. Look you, my dears, all the 
lineages in the world (attend to what I am saying) can be re- 
duced to four sorts, which are these : those that had humble 
beginnings, and went on spreading and extending themselves 
until they attained surpassing greatness ; those that had great 
beginnings and maintained them, and still maintain and up- 
hold the greatness of their origin ; those, again, that from a great 
beginning have ended in a point like a pyramid, having reduced 
and lessened their original greatness till it has come to naught, 
like the point of a pyramid, which, relatively to its base or 
foundation, is nothing; and then there are those — and it is 
they that are the most numerous — that have had neither an 
illustrious beginning nor a remarkable mid-course, and so will 
have an end without a name, like an ordinary plebeian line. 
Of the first, those that had an humble origin and rose to the 

* The reader should bear in mind that cahallero — " knight ” — means 
also " gentleman.” It is in the latter sense that Cervantes uses the word 
m the following passage, as the context will show. 

* Hidalgos. 


40 


DON QUIXOTE. 


greatness they still preserve, the Ottoman house may serve as 
an example, which from an humble and lowly shepherd, its 
founder, has reached the height at which we now see it. For 
examples of the second sort of lineage, that began with great- 
ness and maintains it still without adding to it, there are the 
many princes who have inherited the dignity, and maintain 
themselves in their inheritance, without increasing or dimin- 
ishing it, keeping peacefully within the limits of their states. 
Of those that began great and ended in a point, there are 
thousands of examples, for all the Pharaohs and Ptolemys of 
Egypt, the Crnsars of Pome, and the whole herd (if I may ap- 
ply such a word to them) of countless princes, monarchs, 
lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and barbarians, all 
these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and come 
to nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it 
would be impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, 
even should we find one, it would be in some lowly and hum- 
ble condition. Of plebeian lineages I have nothing to say, 
save that they merely serve to swell the number of those that 
live, without any eminence to entitle them to any fame or 
praise beyond this. From all I have said I would have you 
gather, my poor innocents, that great is the confusion among 
lineages, and that only those are seen to be great and illustri- 
ous that show themselves so by the virtue, wealth, and gen- 
erosity of their possessors. I have said virtue, wealth, and 
generosity, because a great man who is vicious will be a great 
example of vice, and a rich man who is not generous will be 
merely a miserly beggar ; for the possessor of wealth is not 
made happy by possessing it, but by spending it, and not by 
spending as he pleases, but by knowing how to spend it well. 
The poor gentleman has no way of showing that he is a gentle- 
man but by virtue, by being affable, well-bred, courteous, gen- 
tle-mannered and kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or censorious, 
but above all by being charitable ; for by two maravedis given 
with a cheerful heart to the poor, he will show himself as 
generous as he who distributes alms with bell-ringing, and no 
one that perceives him to be endowed with the virtues I have 
named, even though he know him not, will fail to recognize 
and set him down as one of good blood; and it would be 
strange were it not so ; praise has ever been the reward of 
virtue, and those who are virtuous can not fail to receive com- 
mendation. There are two roads, my daughters, by which men 


CHAPTER VI. 


41 


may reach wealth and honors ; one is that of letters, the other 
that of arms. I have more of arms than of letters in my com- 
position, and, judging by my inclination to arms, was born 
under the influence of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a 
measure constrained to follow that road, and by it I must 
travel in spite of all the world, and it will be labor in vain for 
you to urge me to resist what Heaven wills, fate ordains, reason 
requires, and, above all, my own inclination favors ; for know- 
ing as I do the countless toils that are the accompaniments of 
knight-errantry, I know, too, the infinite blessings that are at- 
tained by it ; I know that the path of virtue is very narrow, 
and the road of vice broad and spacious ; I know their ends 
and goals are different, for the broad and easy road of vice 
ends in death, and the narrow and toilsome one of virtue in 
life, and not transitory life, but in that which has no end ; I 
know, as our great Castilian poet says, that — 

It is by rugged paths like these they go 
That scale the heights of immortality, 

Unreached by those that falter here below.” * 

“ Woe is me ! ” exclaimed the niece, my lord is a poet, too ! 
He knows everything, and he can do everything ; I will bet, 
if he chose to turn mason, he could make a house as easily as 
a cage.’’ 

can tell you, niece,” replied Don Quixote, ^^if these chiv- 
alrous thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would 
be nothing that I could not do, nor any sort of knick-knack 
that would not come from my hands, particularly cages and 
tooth-picks.” 

At this moment there came a knocking at the door, and 
when they asked who was there, Sancho Panza made answer 
that it was he. The instant the housekeeper knew who it was, 
she ran to hide herself so as not to see him ; in such abhorrence 
did she hold him. The niece let him in, and his master Don 
Quixote came forward to receive him with open arms, and the 
pair shut themselves up in his room, where they had another 
conversation not inferior to the previous one. 

^ Garcilaso de la Vega, elegy on the death of Don Bernardino de To- 
ledo, brother of the Duke of Alva. 


42 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HiS SQUIRE, 
TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS. 

The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself 
in with her master, she guessed what they were about ; and sus- 
pecting that the result of the consultation would be a resolve 
to undertake a third sally, she seized her mantle, and, in deep 
anxiety and distress, ran to find the bachelor Samson Carrasco, 
as she thought that, being a well-spoken man, and anew friend 
of her master’s, he might be able to persuade him to give up 
any such crazy notion. She found him pacing the patio of his 
house, and, the moment she saw him, she fell at his feet per- 
spiring and flurried, 

Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to 
her, “ What is this, mistress housekeeper ? What has happened 
you ? One would think you heart-broken.” 

Nothing, Seilor Samson,” said she, only that my master 
is breaking out, plainly breaking out.” 

“ Whereabouts is he breaking out, senora ? ” asked Samson ; 
has any part of his body burst ? ” 

He is only breaking out at the door of his madness,” she 
replied ; I mean, dear sefior bachelor, that he is going to break 
out again (and this will be the third time) to hunt all over the 
world for what he calls ventures, though I can’t make out why 
he gives them that name.* The first time he was brought back 
to us slung across the back of an ass, and belabored all over ; 
and the second time he came in an ox-cart, shut up in a cage, 
in which he persuaded himself he was enchanted, and the poor 
creature was in such a state that the mother that bore him would 
not have known him ; lean, yellow, with eyes sunk deep in the 
cells of his skull ; so that to bring him round again, ever so 
little, cost me more than six hundred eggs, as God knows, and 
all the world, and my hens too, that won’t let me tell a lie.” 

^^That I can well believe,” replied the bachelor, “for they 
are so good and so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not 
say one thing for another, though they were to burst for . it. 
In short then, mistress housekeeper, that is all, and there is 

^ Venturas^ which the housekeeper mistakes for avtnturas., would meau 
strokes of jg^ood fortune. 


CHAPTER VII, 


43 


nothing the matter, except what it is feared Don Quixote may 
do ? ” 

^^No, senor,” said she. 

Well then,” returned the bachelor, don’t be uneasy, but 
go home in peace ; get me ready something hot for breakfast, 
and while you are on the way say the prayer of Santa Apollo- 
nia, that is if you know it ; for I will come presently and you 
will see miracles.”. 

Woe is me,” cried the housekeeper, “ is it the prayer of 
Santa Apollonia you would have me say ? That would do if 
it was the toothache my master had ; but it is in the brains, 
what he has got.” ‘ 

I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper ; go, and 
don’t set yourself to argue with me, for you know I am a bach- 
elor of Salamanca, and one can’t be more of a bachelor than 
that,” replied Carrasco ; and with this the housekeeper retired, 
and the bachelor went at once to look for the curate, and 
arrange with him what will be told in its proper place. 

While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they' 
had a discussion which the history records with great preci- 
sion and scrupulous exactness. Sancho said to his master, 

Senor, I have educed my wife to let me go with your wor- 
ship wherever you choose to take me.” 

Induced, you should say, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; not 
educed.” 

“ Once or twice, as well as I remember,” replied Sancho, I 
have begged of your worship not to mend my words, if so be as 
you understand what I mean by them ; and if you don’t un- 
derstand them to say, ^ Sancho,’ or ^ devil,’ ^ I don’t understand 
thee ; and if I don’t make my meanfng plain, then you may 
correct me, for I am so focile ” — 

don’t understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at 
once ; for I know not what ^ I am so focile ’ means.” 

^ So focile ’ means I am so much that way,” replied 
Sancho. 

I understand thee still less now,” said Don Quixote. 

Well, if you can’t understand me,” said Sancho, I don’t 
know how to put it ; I know no more, God help me.” 

Oh, now I have hit it,” said Don Quixote ; thou wouldst 

* According to an old popular rhyme, Santa Apollonia complained of a 
toothache to the Blessed Virgin, who thereupon forbade any tooth, double 
or single, ever to trouble her again. The spell i-s alluded to in the Celes- 
tina,, activ. 


44 


DON QUIXOTE. 


say thou art so docile, tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take 
what I say to thee, and submit to what I teach thee.’’ 

I would bet,” said Sancho, that from the very first you 
understood me, and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put 
me out that you might hear me make another couple of dozen 
blunders.” 

May be so,” replied Don Quixote ; but to come to the 
point, what does Teresa say ? ” 

Teresa says,” replied Sancho, that I should make sure 
with your worship, and <let papers speak and beards be still,’ ^ 
for ‘ he who binds does not wrangle,’ ^ since one ^ take ’ is better 
than two ‘ I ’ll give thee’s ; ’ ^ and I say a woman’s advice is no 
great things, and he who won’t take it is a fool.” ^ 

And so say I,” said Don Quixote ; continue, Sancho my 
friend ; go on ; you talk pearls to-day.” 

The fact is,” continued Sancho, that, as your worship 
knows better than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and 
to-day we are, and to-morrow we are not, and the lamb goes as 
soon as the sheep,® and nobody can promise himself more hours 
of life in this world than God may be pleased to give him ; for 
death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at our life’s door, 
it is always urgent, and neither prayers, nor struggles, nor 
sceptres, nor mitres, can keep it back, as common talk and re- 
port say, and as they tell us from the pulpits every day.” 

“ All that is very true,” said Don Quixote ; but I can not 
make out what thou art driving at.” 

What I am driving at,” said Sancho, is that your worship 
settle some fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am 
in your service, and that the same be paid me out of your es- 
tate ; for I don’t care to stand on rewards which either come 
late, or ill, or never at all ; God help me with my own. In 
short, I would like to know what I am to get, be it much or 
little; for the hen will lay on one egg, and many littles make a 
much, and so long as one gains something there is nothing 
lost.® To be sure, if it should happen (what I neither believe 

’Prov. 40 — if you have a thing in writing, words are unnecessary. 

2 Prov. 74 — Quien destaja no haraja; always mistranslated " He who 
cuts does not shuffle,” which would be meaningless here. It has nothing 
to do with cards. Destajar means to lay down conditions, to stipulate ; 
Barajar certainly means to shuffle, to jumble things together, but in old 
Spanish it meant also to wrangle or dispute. 

3 Prov. 227. “Prov. 149. 

3 Prov. 59, i.e. to the butcher. ® Provs. 100, 141, and 11. 


CHAPTER VII . 


45 


nor expect) that your worship were to give me that island you 
have promised me, I am not so ungrateful nor so grasping but 
that I would be willing to have the revenue of such island 
valued and stopped out of my wages in due promotion.” 

“ Sancho, my friend,” replied Don Quixote, sometimes pro- 
portion may be as good as promotion.” ^ 

I see,” said Sancho ; “ I ’ll bet I ought to have said pro- 
portion, and not promotion ; but it is no matter, as your wor- 
ship has understood me.” 

“ And so well understood,” returned Don Quixote, that I 
have seen into the depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark 
thou art shooting at with the countless shafts of thy proverbs. 
Look here, Sancho, I would readily fix thy wages if I had ever 
found any instance in the histories of the knights-errant to 
show or indicate, by the slightest hint, what their squires used 
to get monthly or yearly ; but I have read all or the best part 
of their histories, and I can not remember reading of any 
knight-errant having assigned fixed wages to his squire ; I only 
know that they all served on reward, and that when they least 
expected it, if good luck attended their masters, they found 
themselves recompensed with an island or something equivalent 
to it, or at the least they were left with a title and lordship. 
If with these hopes and additional inducements you, Sancho, 
please to return to my service, well and good ; but to suppose 
that I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage of 
knight-errantry, is all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you 
back to your house and explain my intentions to your Teresa, 
and if she likes and you like to be on reward with me, bene 
quidem ; if not, we remain friends ; for if the pigeon-house 
does not lack food, it will not lack pigeons ; ^ and bear in 
mind, my son, that a good hope is better than a bad holding, 
and a good grievance better than a bad compensation.^ I 
speak in this way, Sancho, to show you that I can shower 
down proverbs just as well as yourself ; and in short I mean 
to say, and I do say, that if you don’t like to come on reward 

^ The play upon the words here cannot be translated. Sancho, blunder- 
ing as usual, changes the common phrase rata por cantidad — " ratably,” 
or "in proportion” — into gata (cat) por cantidad^ and Don Quixote cor- 
rects him by saying, " a rat (rata) may be sometimes as good as a cat.” 

®Prov. 169. 

Provs. 97 and 197. In the second, Sheldon and Jervas mistranslate 
queja " demand ; ” thereby weakening the force of a proverb, the truth 
of which has been always recognized by politicians, diplomatists, and 
agitators. 


46 


DON QUIXOTE. 


with me, and run the same chance that I run, God be with you 
and make a saint of you ; for I shall find plenty of squires 
more obedient and painstaking, and not so thick-headed or 
talkative as you are.’’ 

When Sancho heard his master’s firm, resolute language, a 
cloud came over the sky with him and the wings of his heart 
dropped, for he had made sure that his master would not go 
without him for all the wealth of the world ; and as he stood 
there dumbfounded and moody, Samson Carrasco came in with 
the housekeeper and niece, who were anxious to hear by what 
arguments he was about to dissuade their master from going 
to seek adventures. The arch wag Samson came forward, and 
embracing him as he had done before, said with a loud voice, 

0 flower of knight-errantry ! 0 shining light of arms ! 0 

honor and mirror of the Spanish nation ! may God Almighty in 
his infinite power grant that any person or persons, who would 
impede or hinder thy third sally, may find no way out of the 
labyrinth of their schemes, nor ever accomplish what they most 
desire ! ” And then, turning to the housekeeper, he said. 

Mistress Housekeeper may just as well give over saying the 
prayer of Santa Apollonia, for I know it is the positive deter- 
mination of the spheres that Senor Don Quixote shall proceed 
to put into execution his new and lofty designs ; and I should 
lay a heavy burden on my conscience did I not urge and per- 
suade this knight not to keep the might of his strong arm and 
the virtue of his valiant spirit any longer curbed and checked, 
for by his inactivity he is defrauding the world of the redress 
of wrongs, of the protection of orphans, of the honor of vir- 
gins, of the aid of widows, and of the support of wives, and 
other matters of this kind appertaining, belonging, proper and 
peculiar to the order of knight-errantry. On, then, my Lord 
Don Quixote, beautiful and brave, let your worship and high- 
ness set out to-day rather than to-morrow ; and if anything 
be needed for the execution of your purpose, here am I ready 
in person and purse to supply the want ; and were it requisite 
to attend your magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the 
rarest good fortune.” 

At this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, Did I not 
tell thee, Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare 
for me ? See now who offers to become one ; no less than the 
illustrious bachelor Samson Carrasco, the perpetual joy and 
delight of the courts of the Salaniancan schools, sound in 


CHAPTER VII. 


47 


body, discreet, patient under heat or cold, hunger or thirst, 
with all the qualifications requisite to make a knight-errant’s 
squire ! But Heaven forbid that, to gratify my own inclina- 
tion, I should shake or shatter this pillar of letters and vessel 
of the sciences, and cut down this towering palm of the fair 
and liberal arts. Let this new Samson remain in his own 
country, and, bringing honor to it, bring honor at the same 
time on the gray heads of his venerable parents ; for I will 
be content with any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho 
does not deign to accompany me.” 

I do deign,” said Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in 
his eyes ; it shall not be said of me, master mine,” he con- 
tinued, ^ the bread eaten and the company dispersed.’^ 
iSTay, I come of no ungrateful stock, for all the world knows, 
but particularly my own town, who the Panzas from whom I 
am descended were ; and, what is more, I know and have 
learned, by many good words and deeds, your worship’s desire 
to show me favor ; and if I have been bargaining more or 
less about my wages, it was only to please my wife, who, 
when she sets herself to press a point, no hammer drives the 
hoops of a cask as she drives one to do what she wants; but, 
after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman ; and 
as I am a man anyhow, which I can’t deny, I will be one in 
my own house too, let who will take it amiss ; and so there ’s 
nothing more to do but for your worship to make your will 
with its codicil in such a way that it can’t be provoked, and 
let us set out at once, to save Senor Samson’s soul from suf- 
fering, as he says his conscience obliges him to persuade your 
worship to sally out upon the world a third time ; so I offer 
again to serve your worship faithfully and loyally, as well and 
better than all the squires that served knights-errant in times 
past or present.” 

The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard 
Sancho’s phraseology and style of talk, for though he had 
read the first part of his master’s history he never thought 
that he could be so droll as he was there described ; but now, 
hearing him talk of a will and codicil that could not be pro- 
voked, instead of will and codicil that could not be revoked, 
he believed all he had read of him, and set him down as one 
of the greatest simpletons of modern times ; and he said to 
himself that two such lunatics as master and man the world 


* Prov. 174. 


48 


DON QUIXOTE. 


had never seen. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced 
one another and made friends, and by the advice and with 
the approval of the great Carrasco, who was now their oracle, 
it was arranged that their departure should take place three 
days thence, by which time they could have all that was 
requisite for the journey ready, and procure a closed helmet, 
which Don Quixote said he must by all means take. Samson 
offered him one, as he knew a friend of his who had it would 
not refuse it to him, though it was more dingy with rust and 
mildew than bright and clean like burnished steel. 

The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on 
the bachelor were past counting; they tore their hair, they 
clawed their faces, and in the style of the hired mourners that 
were once in fashion, they raised a lamentation over the de- 
parture of their master and uncle, as if it had been his death. 
Samson’s intention in persuading him to sally forth once more 
was to do what the history relates farther on ; all by the ad- 
vice of the curate and barber, with whom he had previously 
discussed the subject. Finally, then, during those three days, 
Don Quixote and Sancho provided themselves with what they 
considered necessary, and Sancho having pacified his wife, and 
Don Quixote his niece and housekeeper, at nightfall, unseen by 
any one except the bachelor, who thought fit to accompany 
them half a league out of the village, they set out for El 
Toboso, Don Quixote on his good Eocinante and Sancho on his 
old Dapple, his alforjas furnished with certain matters in the 
way of victuals, and his purse, with money that Don Quixote 
gave him to meet emergencies. Samson embraced him, and 
entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil fortunes, so 
that he might rejoice over the former or condole with him over 
the latter, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote 
promised him he would do so, and Samson returned to the vil- 
lage, and the other two took the road for the great city of El 
Toboso. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


49 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY 
TO SEE KIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO. 

Blessed be Allah the all-powerful ! says Hamet Benengeli 
on beginning this eighth chapter ; blessed be Allah ! he re- 
peats three times ; and he says he utters these thanksgivings 
at seeing that he has now got Don Quixote and Sancho fairly 
afield, and that the readers of his delightful history may 
reckon that the achievements and humors of Don Quixote and 
his squire are now about to begin ; and he urges them to forget 
the former chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to fix 
their eyes on those that are to come, which now begin on the 
road to El Toboso, as the others began on the plains of Mon- 
tiel ; nor is it much that he asks in consideration of all he 
promises, and so he goes on to say : 

Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment 
Samson took his departure, Rocinante began to neigh, and 
Dapple to sigh, which, by both knight and squire, was accepted 
as a good sign and a very happy omen ; though, if the truth is 
to be told, the sighs and brays of Dapple were louder than the 
neighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred that his 
good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his master, 
building, perhaps, upon some judicial astrology that he may 
have known, though the history says nothing about it ; all that 
can be said is, that when he stumbled or fell, he was heard to 
say he wished he had not come out, for by stumbling or falling 
there was nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or a broken 
rib ; and, fool as he was, he was not much astray in this. 

Said Don Quixote, “ Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on 
upon us as we go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach 
El Toboso by daylight ; for there I am resolved to go before I 
engage in another adventure, and there I shall obtain the bless- 
ing and generous permission of the peerless Dulcinea, with 
which permission I expect and feel assured that I shall con- 
clude and bring to a happy termination every perilous advent- 
ure ; for nothing in life makes knights-errant more valorous 
than finding themselves favored by their ladies.’^ 

So I believe,’’ replied Sancho ; but I think it will be dif- 
ficult for your worship to speak with her or see her, at any 
VoL. II. - 4 


50 


DON QUIXOTE. 


rate where you will be able to receive her blessing ; unless, in- 
deed, she throws it over the wall of the yard where I saw her 
the time before, when I took her the letter that told of the 
follies and mad things your* worship was doing in the Sierra 
Morena.” 

Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho ? ’’ said Don 
Quixote, “ where or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently 
extolled grace and beauty ? It must have been the gallery, 
corridor, or portico of some rich and royal palace.’’ 

“ It might have been all that,” returned Sancho, but to 
me it looked like a wall, unless I am short of memory.” 

“ At all events, let us go there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
“ for, so that I see her, it is the same to me whether it be over 
a wall, or at a window, or through the chink of a door, or the 
grate of a garden ; for any beam of the sun of her beauty that 
reaches my eyes will give light to my reason and strength to 
my heart, so that I shall be unmatched and unequalled in wis- 
dom and valor.” 

“ Well, to tell the truth, senor,” said Sancho, when I saw 
that sun of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright 
enough to throw out any beams at all ; it must have been, that 
as her grace was sifting that wheat I told you of, the thick 
dust she raised came before her face like a cloud and dimmed 
it.” 

What ! dost thou still persist, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
in saying, thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady 
Dulcinea was sifting wheat, that being an occupation and 
task entirely at variance with what is and should be the em- 
ployment of persons of distinction, who are constituted and 
reserved for other avocations and pursuits that show their rank 
a bow-shot off ? Thou hast forgotten, 0 Sancho, those lines 
of our poet wherein he paints for us how, in their crystal 
abodes, those four nymphs employed themselves who rose 
from their loved Tagus and seated themselves in a verdant 
meadow to embroider those tissues which the ingenious poet 
there describes to us, how they were worked and woven with 
gold and silk and pearls;^ and something of this sort must 
have been the employment of my lady when thou sawest her, 
only that the spite which some wicked enchanter seems to have 
against everything of mine changes all those things that give 
me pleasure, and turns them into shapes unlike their own ; and 
* Garcilaso de la Vega. Egloga III, 


CHAPTER VIII. 


5l 


so I fear that in that history of my achievements which they 
say is now in print, if haply its author was some sage who is 
an enemy of mine, he will have put one thing for another, 
mingling a thousand lies with one truth, and amusing himself 
by relating transactions which have nothing to do with th (3 
sequence of a true history. 0 envy, root of all countless evils, 
and canker-worm of the virtues ! All the vices, Sancho, bring 
some kind of pleasure with them ; but envy brings nothing but 
irritation, bitterness, and rage.” 

So I say too,” replied Sancho ; and I suspect in that legend 
or history of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he 
saw, my honor goes dragged in the dirt, knocked about, up 
and down, sweeping the streets, as they say. And yet, on the 
faith of an honest man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter, 
and I am not so well off that I am to be envied ; to be sure, I 
am rather sly, and I have a certain spice of the rogue in me ; 
but all is covered by the great cloak of my simplicity, always 
natural and never acted ; ^ and if I had no other merit save 
that I believe, as I always do, firmly and truly in God, pnd all 
the holy E-oman Catholic Church holds and believes, and that 
I am a mortal enemy of the Jews, as I am, the historians ought 
to have mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. 
But let them say what they like ; naked was I born, naked I 
find myself, I neither lose nor gain ; ^ nay, while I see myself 
put into a book and passed on from hand to hand all over the 
world, I don’t care a fig, let them say what they like of me.” 

That, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, reminds me of 
what happened to a famous poet of our own day, who, having 
written a bitter satire against all the court ladies, did not in- 
sert or name in it a certain lady of whom it was questionable 
whether she was one or not. She, seeing she was not in the 
list of the ladies, complained to the poet, asking him what he 
had seen in her that he did not include her in the number of 
the others, and telling him he must add to his satire and put 
her in the new part, or else look out for the consequences. 
The poet did as she bade him, and left her without a shred of 
reputation, and she was satisfied by getting fame though it was 
infamy. In keeping with this is what they relate of that shep- 
herd who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by repute one 

* Cid Hamet Benengeli might have objected with more reason to this 
than to Sancho’s speeches in chapter v. 

* Prov. 78. 


52 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of the seven wonders of the world, and burned it with the sole 
object of making his name live in after ages ; and, though it 
was forbidden to name him, or mention his name by word of 
mouth or in writing, lest the object of his ambition should be 
attained, nevertheless it became known that he was called 
Erostratus. And something of the same sort is what happened 
in the case of the great emperor Charles V. and a gentleman 
in Eome. The emperor was anxious to see that famous temple 
of the Eotondo, called in ancient times the temple ‘ of all the 
gods,’ ^ but now-a-days, by a better nomenclature, ^ of all the 
saints,’ which is the best preserved building of all those of 
pagan construction in Rome, and the one which best sustains 
the reputation of the mighty works and magnificence of its 
founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormous 
dimensions, and well lighted, though no light penetrates it save 
that which is admitted by a window, or rather round skylight, 
at the top ; and it was from this that the emperor examined 
the building. A Roman gentleman stood by his side and ex- 
plained to him the skilful construction and ingenuity of the 
vast fabric and its wonderful architecture, and when they had 
left the skylight he said to the emperor, ^ A thousand times, 
your Sacred Majesty, the impulse came upon me to seize your 
Majesty in my arms and fling myself down from yonder sky- 
light, so as to leave behind me in the world a name that would 
last forever.’ ^ I am thankful to you for not carrying such an 
evil thought into effect,’ said the emperor, ^and I shall give 
you no opportunity in future of again putting your loyalty to 
the test ; and I therefore forbid you ever to speak to me or to 
be where I am ; ’ and he followed up these words by bestowing 
a liberal bounty upon him. My meaning is, Sancho, that the 
desire of acquiring fame is a very powerful motive. What, 
thinkest thou, was it that flung Horatius in full armor down 
from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber ? What burned 
the hand and arm of Mutius ? What impelled Curtius to 
plunge into the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of 
Rome ? What, in opposition to all the omens that declared 
against him, made Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon ? And to 
come to more modern examples, what scuttled the ships, and 
left stranded and cut off the gallant Spaniards under the com- 

^ The Pantheon ; the ascent of the dome by Charles V. in 1536 is 
historical, but none of the memoirs mention the story of the Roman 
gentleman. 


CHAPTER VI I L 


63 


mand of the courteous Cortes in the New World? All these 
and a variety of other great exploits are, were, and will be, the 
work of fame that mortals desire as a reward and a portion of 
the immortality their famous deeds deserve ; though we Catholic 
Christians and knights-errant look more to that future glory 
that is everlasting in the ethereal regions of heaven, than to the 
vanity of the fame that is to be acquired in this present tran- 
sitory life ; a fame that, however long it may last, must after all 
end with the world itself, which has its own appointed end. 
So that, 0 Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the 
bounds which the Christian religion we profess has assigned to 
us. We have to slay pride in giants, envy by generosity and 
nobleness of heart, anger by calmness of demeanor and equa- 
nimity, gluttony and sloth by the spareness of our diet and the 
length of our vigils, lust and lewdness by the loyalty we pre- 
serve to those whom we have made the mistresses of our 
thoughts, indolence by traversing the world in all directions 
seeking opportunities of making ourselves, besides Christians, 
famous knights. Such, Sancho, are the means by which we 
reach those extremes of praise that fair fame carries with it.” 

All that your worship has said so far,” said Sancho, “ I 
have understood quite well ; but still I would be glad if your 
worship would dissolve a doubt for me, which has just this 
minute come into my mind.” 

“ Solve, thou meanest, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; say on, 
in God’s name, and I will answer as well as I can.” 

Tell me, senor,” Sancho went on to say, those J ulys or 
Augusts,^ and all those venturous knights that you say are now 
dead — where are they now ? ” 

The heathens,” replied Don Quixote, are, no doubt, in 
hell; the Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in 
purgatory or in heaven.” 

Very good,” said Sancho ; but now I want to know — the 
tombs where the bodies of those great lords are, have they 
silver lamps before them, or are the walls of their chapels 
ornamented with crutches, winding-sheets, tresses of hair, legs 
and eyes in wax ? Or, if not, what are they ornamented 
with ? ” 

To which Don Quixote made answer : The tombs of the 
heathens were generally sumptuous temples ; the ashes of J ulius 
Caesar’s body were placed on the top of a stone pyramid of vast 
* Julio is July ” as well as " Julius.” 


64 


DON QUIXOTE. 


size, which they now call in Eome Saint Peter’s needle.* The 
emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a castle as large as a good- 
sized village, which they called the Moles Adriani^ and is now 
the castle of St. Angelo in Eome. The queen Artemisia buried 
her husband Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one of 
the seven wonders of the world ; but none of these tombs, or 
of the many others of the heathens, were ornamented with 
winding-sheets or any of those other offerings and tokens that 
show that they who are buried there are saints.” 

That ’s the point I ’m coming to,” said Sancho ; “ and now 
tell me, which is the greater work, to bring a dead man to life 
or to kill a giant ? ” 

“ The answer is easy,” replied Don Quixote ; ‘‘ it is a greater 
work to bring to life a dead man.” 

Now I have got you,” said Sancho ; in that case the fame 
of them who bring the dead to life, who give sight to the blind, 
cure cripples, restore health to the sick, and before whose tombs 
there are lamps burning, and whose chapels are filled with de- 
vout folk on their knees adoring their relics, will be a better 
fame in this life and in the other, than that which all the heathen 
emperors and knights-errant that have ever been in the world 
have left or may leave behind them ? ” 

That I grant, too,” said Don Quixote. 

Then this fame, these favors, these privileges, or whatever 
you call it,” said Sancho, belong to the bodies and relics of the 
saints who, with the approbation and permission of our holy 
mother Church, have lamps, tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, 
pictures, eyes and legs, by means of which they increase devo- 
tion and add to their own Christian reputation. Kings carry 
the bodies or relics of saints on their shoulders, and kiss bits 
of their bones, and enrich and adorn their oratories and favorite 
altars with them.” 

‘‘ What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, 
Sancho ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

“ My meaning is,” said Sancho, let us set about becoming 
saints, and we shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are 
striving after ; for you know, senor, yesterday or the day before 
yesterday (for it is so lately one may say so) they canonized 
and beatified two little barefoot friars,^ and it is now reckoned 

* The obelisk that now stands in front of St. Peter's. 

* S. Diego de Alcala, canonized in 1588, and S. Salvador de Orta, or 
S. Pedro de Alcantara, in 1562. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


55 


the greatest good luck to kiss or touch the iron chains with 
which they girt and tortured their bodies, and they are held in 
greater veneration, so it is said, than the sword of Koland in 
the armory of our lord the King, whom God preserve. So that, 
senor, it is better to be an humble little friar of no matter what 
order, than a valiant knight-errant ; with God a couple of 
dozen of penance lashings are of more avail than two thousand 
lance-thrusts, be they given to giants, or monsters, or dragons.” 

“ All that is true,” returned Don Quixote, “ but we can not 
all be friars, and many are the ways by which God takes his 
own to heaven ; chivalry is a religion, there are sainted knights 
in glory.” 

Yes,” said Sancho, “ but I have heard say that there are 
more friars in heaven than knights-errant.” 

That,” said Don Quixote, is because those in religious 
orders are more numerous than knights.” 

The errants are many,” said Sancho. 

Many,” replied Don Quixote, but few they who deserve 
the name of knights.” 

With these, and other dicussions of the same sort, they passed 
that night and the following day, without anything worth men- 
tion happening to them, whereat Don Quixote was not a little 
dejected ; but at length the next day, at daybreak, they descried 
the great city of El Toboso, at the sight of which Don Quixote’s 
spirits rose and Sancho’s fell, for he did not know Dulcinea’s 
house, nor in all his life had he ever seen her, any more than 
his master ; so that they were both uneasy, the one to see her, 
the other at not having seen her, and Sancho was at a loss to 
know what he was to do when his master sent him to El Toboso. 
In the end, Don Quixote made up his mind to enter the city at 
nightfall, and they waited until the time came among some 
oak trees that were near El Toboso ; and when the moment they 
had agreed upon arrived, they made their entrance into the city, 
where something happened to them that may fairly be call^ 
something. 


66 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER IX. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE. 

’T WAS at the very midnight hour ^ — more or less — when 
Don Quixote and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El To- 
boso. The town was in deep silence, for all the inhabitants 
were asleep, and stretched on the broad of their backs, as the 
saying is. The night was darkish, though Sancho would have 
been glad had it been quite dark, so as to find in the darkness 
an excuse for his blundering. All over the place nothing was 
to be heard except the barking of dogs, which deafened the ears 
of Don Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now and 
then an ass brayed, pigs grunted, cats mewed, and the various 
noises they made seemed louder in the silence of the night ; all 
which the enamoured knight took to be of evil omen ; never- 
theless he said to Sancho, Sancho, my son, lead on to the 
palace of Dulcinea, it may be that we shall :^d her awake.^’ 

“ Body of the sun ! what palace am I to lead to,^^ said Sancho, 
when what I saw her highness in was only a very little 
house ? ” 

Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apart- 
ment of her palace,’’ said Don Quixote, “ to amuse herself with 
her damsels, as great ladies and princesses are accustomed to 
do.” 

“ Senor,” said Sancho, “ if your worship will have it in spite 
of me that the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an 
hour, think you, to find the door open ; and will it be right for 
us to go knocking till they hear us and open the door ; making 
a disturbance and confusion all through the household ? Are 
we going, do you fancy, to the house of our wenches, like gal- 
lants who come and knock and go in at any hour, however late 
it may be ? ” 

‘‘ Let us first of all find out the palace for certain,” replied 
Don Quixote, and then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had 

* Media noche era por Jilo — the beginning of the ancient ballad of 
Conde Claros. Ticknor, a propos of this ballad, makes a strange mis- 
take, assuming that the xforAn por jilo refer to some early contrivance for 
measuring time, and therefore indicate a date before the invention of 
clocks. Filo here is the line marked on a balance, by which the deviation 
of the index to one side or the other is observed; por jilo means noth* 
ing more than "exactly,” or " on the very line of midnight.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


57 


best do ; but look, Sancbo, for either I see badly, or that great 
dark mass that one sees from here should be Dulcinea’s palace.” 

Then let your worship lead the way,” said Sancho ; per- 
haps it may be so ; though I see it with my eyes and touch it 
with my hands, I ’ll believe it as much as I believe it is daylight 
now.” 

Don Quixote took the lead, and having gone a matter of two 
hundred paces he came upon the mass that produced the shade, 
and found it was a great tower, and then he perceived that tho 
building in question was no palace, but the chief church of the 
town,^ and said h.e, “ It ’s the church we have lit upon, Sancho.” 

So I see,” said Sancho, and God grant we may not light 
upon our graves ; it is no good sign to find one’s self wandering 
in a graveyard at this time of night ; and that, after my telling 
your worship, if I don’t mistake, that the house of this lady 
will be in an alley without an outlet.” 

The curse of God on thee for a blockhead ! ” said Don 
Quixote ; where hast thou ever heard of castles and royal 
palaces being built in alleys without an outlet ? ” 

‘‘ Senor,” replied Sancho, “ every country has a way of its 
own ; ^ perhaps here in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces 
and grand buildings in alleys ; so I entreat your worship to let 
me search about among these streets or alleys before me, and 
perhaps, in some corner or other, I may stumble on this 
palace — and I wish I saw the dogs eating it for leading us 
such a dance.” 

“ Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote ; “ let us keep the feast in peace, and not 
throw the rope after the bucket.” ^ 

I ’ll hold my tongue,” said Sancho, but how am I to take 
it patiently when your worship wants me, with only once see- 
ing the house of our mistress, to know it always, and find it in 
the middle of the night, when your worship can’t find it, who 
must have seen it thousands of times ? ” 

Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote. Look here, heretic, have I not told thee a thousand 
times that I have never once in my life seen the peerless Dul- 
cinea or crossed the threshold of her palace, and that I am 
enamoured solely by hearsay and by the great reputation she 
bears for beauty and discretion ? ” 

^ As a matter of fact the church tower of El Toboso is an unusually 
massive and conspicuous one. 

* Prov. 235. ^ Prov. 218. 


58 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I hear it now,” returned Sancho ; and I may tell you 
that if you have not seen her, no more have I.” 

That can not be,” said Don Quixote; for, at any rate, thou 
saidst, on bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee, 
that thou sawest her sifting wheat.” 

Doidt mind that, senor,” said Sancho ; I must tell you 
that my seeing her and the answer I brought you back were 
by hearsay too, for I can no more tell who the lady Dulcinea 
is than I can hit the sky.” 

Sancho, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, there are times for 
jests, and times when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that 
I have neither seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no 
reason why thou shouldst say thou hast not spoken to her or 
seen her, when the contrary is the case, as thou well knowest.” 

While the two were engaged in this conversation, they per- 
ceived some one with a pair of mules approaching the spot 
where they stood, and from the noise the plough made as it 
dragged along the ground they guessed him to be some laborer 
who had got up before daybreak to go to his work, and so it 
proved to be. He came along singing the ballad that says — 

111 did ye fare, ye men of France, 

In Roncesvalles chase * — 

“ May I die, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, when he heard him, 

if any good will come to us to-night ! Dost thou not hear 
what that clown is singing ? ” 

“ I do,” said Sancho, “ but what has Koncesvalles chase to 
do with what we have in hand ? He might just as well be 
singing the ballad of Calainos,^ for any good or ill that can 
come to us in our business.” 

By this time the laborer had come up, and Don Quixote asked 
him, ‘‘ Can you tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, 
whereabouts here is the palace of the peerless princess Dona 
Dulcinea del Toboso ? ” 

* " Mala la liubistes, Franceses, 

La caza de Roncesvalles ” — 

the beginning of one of the most popular of the ballads of the Carlovingian 
cycle. Lockhart has in his own fashion given the substance of it in The 
Admiral Guarinos. The correct form of the first line is " Mala la vistes, 
Franceses.” 

® Another even more popular ballad of the same group, beginning " Ya 
cabalga Calainos.” Both are in the undated Cancionero of Antwerp, and 
in Duran’s Romanceroy Nos. 402 and 373. 


CHAPTER IX. 


59 


“ Senor/’ replied the lad, I am a stranger, and I have been 
only a few days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. 
In that house opposite there live the curate of the village and 
the sacristan, and both or either of them will be able to give 
your worship some account of this lady princess, for they have 
a list of all the people of El Toboso ; though it is my belief 
there is not a princess living in the whole of it j many ladies 
there are, of quality, and in her own house each of them may 
be a princess.’’ 

“ Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my 
friend,” said Don Quixote. 

“ May be so,” replied the lad ; God be with you, for here 
comes the daylight ; ” and without waiting for any more of his 
questions, he whipped on his mules. 

Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatis- 
fied, said to him, Senor, daylight will be here before long, 
and it will not do for us to let the sun find us in the street ; it 
will be better for us to quit the city, and for your worship to 
hide in some forest in the neighborhood, and I will come back 
in the daytime, and I won’t leave a nook or corner of the whole 
village that I won’t search for the house, castle, or palace, of 
my lady, and it will be hard luck for me if I don’t find it ; and 
as soon as I have found it I will speak to her grace, and tell 
her where and how your worship is waiting for her to arrange 
some plan for you to see her without any damage to her honor 
and reputation.” 

‘^Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘^thou hast delivered a thou- 
sand sentences condensed in the compass of a few words ; I 
thank thee for the advice thou hast given me, and take it most 
gladly. Come, my son, let us go look for some place where I 
may hide, while thou dost return, as thou sayest, to seek, see, 
and speak with my lady, from whose discretion and courtesy 
I look for favors more than miraculous.” 

Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the town, lest 
he should discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought 
to him in the Sierra Morena on behalf of Dulcinea: so he 
hastened their departure, which they took at once ; and two 
miles out of the village they found a forest or thicket wherein 
Don Quixote ensconced himself, while Sancho returned to the 
city to speak to Dulcinea, in which embassy things befell him 
which demand fresh attention and a new chapter. 


60 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER X.» 

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED 
TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS 
AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE. 

The history relates that as soon as Don Quixote had en- 
sconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood near El 
Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the city, and not come into 
his presence again without having first spoken on his behalf to 
his lady, and begged of her that it might be her good pleasure 
to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign 
to bestow her blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope 
for a happy issue in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. 
Sancho undertook to execute the task according to the instruc- 
tions, and to bring back an answer as good as the one he 
brought back before. 

Go, my son,’^ said Don Quixote, and be not dazed when 
thou findest thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty 
thou art going to seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in 
the world ! Bear in mind, and let it not escape thy memory, 
how she receives thee; if she changes color while thou art 
giving her my message ; if she is agitated and disturbed at 
hearing my name; if she can not rest upon her cushion, shouldst 
thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state-chamber 
proper to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if 
she poises herself now on one foot, now on the other ; if she 
repeats two or three times the reply she gives thee ; if she 
passes from gentleness to austerity, from asperity to tender- 
ness ; if she raises her hand to smooth her hair though it be 
not disarranged. In short, my son, observe all her actions 
and motions, for if thou wilt report them to me as they were, 
I will gather what she hides in the recesses of her heart as 
regards my love ; for I would have thee know, Sancho, if thou 
knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and 
motions they give way to when their loves are in question, 
are the faithful messengers that carry the news of what is 
going on in the depths of their hearts. Go, my friend, may 

* In the original editions this chapter begins with the words which will 
be found at the beginning of chapter xvii. As Hartzenbusch points out, 
they are quite out of place here. 


CHAPTER X. 


61 


better fortune than mine attend thee, and bring thee a happier 
issue than that which I await in dread in this dreary soli- 
tude/^ 

I will go and return quickly,” said Sancho ; cheer up that 
little heart of yours, master mine, for at the present moment 
you seem to have got one no bigger than a hazel nut; re- 
member what they say, that a stout heart breaks bad luck/ 
and that where there are no flitches there are no pegs ; ^ and 
moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it ’s not looked 
for.® I say this because, if we could not And my lady’s palaces 
or castle to-night, now that it is daylight I count upon finding 
them when I least expect it, and once found, leave it to me to 
manage her.” 

^‘Verily, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ^^thou dost always 
bring in thy proverbs happily, whatever we deal with ; may 
God give me better luck in what I am anxious about.” 

With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, 
and Don Quixote remained behind, seated on his horse, resting 
in his stirrups and leaning on the end of his lance, filled with 
sad and troubled forebodings ; and there we will leave him, 
and accompany Sancho, who went off no less serious and 
troubled than he left his master ; so much so, that as soon as 
he had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don 
Quixote was not withiti sight, he dismounted from his ass, and 
seating himself at the foot of a tree began to commune with 
himself, saying, ‘‘Now, brother Sancho, let us know where 
your worship is going. Are you going to look for some ass 
that has been lost ? Not at all. Then what are you going to look 
for ? I am going to look for a princess, that ’s all ; and in her 
for the sun of beauty and the whole heaven at once. And 
where do you expect to find all this, Sancho ? Where ? Why, 
in the great city of El Toboso. Well, and for whom are you 
going to look for her ? For the famous knight Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who 
thirst and drink to the hungry. That ’s all very well, but do 
you know her house, Sancho? My master says it will be 
some royal palace or grand castle. And have you ever seen 
her by any chance ? Neither I nor my master ever saw her. 
And does it strike you that it would be just and right if the El 
Toboso people, finding out that you were here with the intention 

* Prov. 58. 

* A muddle by Sancho of the proverb (226) so often quoted. 

8 Prov. 129. 


62 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of going to tamper with their princesses and trouble their 
ladies, were to come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave a whole 
bone in you ? They would, ipdeed, have very good reason, if 
they did not see that I am under orders, and that ‘ you are a 
messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you/ ^ Don’t you 
trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as hot- 
tempered as they are honest, and won’t put up with liberties 
from anybody. By the Lord, if they get scent of you, it will 
be worse for you, I promise you. Be off, you scoundrel ! Let 
the bolt fall.^ Why should I go looking for three feet on a 
cat,® to please another man ; and what is more, when looking 
for Dulcinea will be like looking for Marica in Babena, or the 
bachelor in Salamanca ? ^ The devil, the devil and nobody else, 
has mixed me up in this business ! ” 

Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all 
the conclusion he could come to was to say to himself again, 
‘‘Well, there’s a remedy for everything except death,® under 
whose yoke we have all to pass, whether we like it or not, 
when life ’s finished. I have seen by a thousand signs that 
this master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and for that 
matter, I too, am not behind him ; for I ’m a greater fool than 
he is when I follow him and serve him, if there ’s any truth in 
the proverb that says, ‘ Tell me what company thou keepest, and 
I ’ll tell thee what thou art,’ or in that Other, ‘ Not with whom 
thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.’ ® Well then, if he 
be mad, as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one 
thing for another, and white for black, and black for white, as 
was seen when he said the windmills were giants, and the 
monks’ mules dromedaries, and the flocks of sheep armies of 
enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will not be very 
hard to make him believe that some country girl, the first I 
come across here, is the lady Dulcinea ; and if he does not be- 
lieve it, I ’ll swear it ; and if he should swear, I ’ll swear again ; 
and if he persists, I ’ll persist still more, so as, come what may, 

* Two lines from one of the Bernardo del Carpio ballads, " Con cartas y 
mensageros.” (^Cancionero de Romances.! 1550.) 

*Prov. 199; literally and in full the phrase runs, "Fall, thunderbolt, 
yonder on Tamayo’s house” — meaning, it is all the same to me, pro- 
vided it does not fall on mine. 

3 Prov. 103. 

^Prov. 134. As bachelors swarm in Salamanca, to go there looking foi 
the bachelor, with no other address, would be the height of hopelessness. 

* Prov. 144. «Provs. 13, 153. 


CHAPTER X. 


63 


feo have my quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out 
in this way, I may put a stop to his sending me on messages 
of this kind another time ; or maybe he will think, as I 
suspect he will, that one of those wicked enchanters, who he 
says have a spite against him, has changed her form for the 
sake of doing him an ill turn and injuring him.’’ 

With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting 
the business as good as settled, and stayed there till the after- 
noon so as to make Don Quixote think he had time enough to 
go to El Toboso and return ; and things turned out so luckily 
for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, he spied, coming 
from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three peasant 
girls on three colts, or fillies — for the author does not make 
the point clear, though it is more likely they were she-asses, 
the usual mount with village girls ; but as it is of no great 
consequence, we need not stop to prove it. 

To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he 
returned full speed to seek his master, and found him sighing 
and uttering a thousand passionate lamentations. When Don 
Quixote saw him he exclaimed, What news, Sancho my friend ? 
Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a black ? ” 

Your worship,” replied Sancho, had better mark it with 
ruddle, like the lists on the professors’ chairs,^ that those who 
see it may see it plain.” 

Then thou bringest good news,” said Don Quixote. 

So good,” replied Sancho, that your worship has only to 
spur Eocinante and get out into the open field to see the lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is 
coming to see your worship.” 

Holy God ! what art thou saying, Sancho my friend ? ” 
exclaimed Don Quixote. Take care thou art not deceiving 
me, or seeking by false joy to cheer my real sadness.” 

^^What could I get by deceiving your worship,” returned 
Sancho, especially when it will so soon be shown whether I 
tell the truth or not ? Come, senor, push on, and you will 
see the princess our mistress coming, robed and adorned — in 
fact, like what she is. Her damsels and she are all one glow 
of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth 
of brocade of more than ten borders ; ^ with their hair loose on 
their shoulders like so many sunbeams playing with the wind ; 

' i.e., the lists of bachelors qualified for degrees. 

* Ordinary brocade had only a triple border. 


64 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and moreover, they come mounted on three piebald cackneys, 
the finest sight ever you saw.’’ 

Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. 

There is not much difference between cackneys and hack- 
neys,” ’ said Sancho ; but no matter what they come on, there 
they are, the finest ladies one could wish for, especially my 
lady the princess Dulcinea, who staggers one’s senses.” 

“ Let us go, Sancho my son,” said Don Quixote, “ and in 
guerdon of this news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow 
upon thee the best spoil I shall win in the first adventure I 
may have ; or if that does not satisfy thee, I promise thee the 
foals I shall have this year from my three mares that thou 
knowest are in foal on our village common.” 

“ I ’ll take the foals,” said Sancho ; for it is not quite cer- 
tain that the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones.” 

By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three 
village lasses close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the 
road to El Toboso, and as he could see nobody except the three 
peasant girls, he was completely puzzled, and asked Sancho if 
it was outside the city he had left them. 

How outside the city ? ” returned Sancho. Are your 
worship’s eyes in the back of your head, that you can’t see 
that they are these who are coming here, shining like the very 
sun at noonday ? ” 

I see nothing, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ but three 
country girls on three jackasses.” 

Now, may God deliver me from the devil ! ” returned 
Sancho, “ and can it be that your worship takes three hackneys 
— or whatever they ’re called — as white as the driven snow, 
for jackasses ? By the Lord, I could tear my beard if that 
was the case ! ” 

^^Well, I can only say, Sancho my friend,” said Don 
Quixote, ^‘that it is as plain they are jackasses — or jenny- 
asses — as that I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza : 
at any rate, they seem to me to be so.” 

Hush, senor,” said Sancho, don’t talk that way, but open 
your eyes, and come and pay your respects to the lady of your 
thoughts, who is close upon us now ; ” and with these words 
he advanced to receive the three village lasses, and dismount- 

‘ Sancho perverts the word hacaneas into eananeas., >vhich, if it means 
ariy thing, means " Canaanites.” Possibly Cervantes may have intended 
a joke on the supposed Oriental origin of the ass, like that in the English 
slang title ‘^‘Jerusalem pony.” 


CHAPTER X 


65 


ing from Dapple, caught hold of one of the asses of the three 
country girls by the halter, and dropping on both knees on the 
ground, he said, “ Queen and princess and duchess of beauty, 
may it please your haughtiness and greatness to receive into 
your favor and good-will your captive knight who stands there 
turned into marble stone, and quite stupefied and benumbed at 
finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am Sancho 
Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of 
La Mancha, otherwise called ‘ The Knight of the Kueful 
Countenance.’ ” 

Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees 
beside Sancho, and, with eyes starting out of his head and a 
puzzled gaze, was regarding her whom Sancho called queen 
and lady ; and as he could see nothing in her except a village 
lass, and not a very well-favored one, for she was platter- 
faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and bewildered, and 
did not venture to open his lips. The country girls, at the 
same time, were astonished to see these two men, so different 
in appearance, on their knees, preventing their companion 
from going on. She, however, who had been stopped, breaking 
silence, said angrily and testily, Get out of the way, bad 
luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.” 

To which Sancho returned, Oh, princess and universal lady 
of El Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing 
the pillar and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your 
sublimated presence ? ” 

On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, ^‘Woa then! 
why, I ’m rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law ! ^ 
See how the lordlings come to make game of the village girls 
now, as if we here could not chaff as well as themselves. Go 
your own way, and let us go ours, and it will be better for 
you.” 

Get up, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this ; I see that 
fortune, ^ with evil done to me unsated still,’ ^ has taken pos- 

^ Jo ! que te estrego^ hurra de mi suegro ! — In all the translations I 
have seen, this exclamation is either omitted or misunderstood. Shelton 
and Jervas suppose it to be addressed by the girl to the ass she is riding. 
It is in reality a popular phrase (as may be perceived by the rhyme), and 
commonly used when a person takes amiss something that is intended as a 
favor or a compliment. The girl uses it here ironically, fancying that 
Sancho’s complimentary language is, as we should say, "chaff,” and striv- 
ing to pay him off in his own coin. 

® A line from Garcilaso de la Vega, Egloga III. 

VoL. II. — 5 


66 


DON QUIXOTE, 


session of all the roads by which any comfort may reach this 
wretched soul that I carry in my flesh. And thou, 0 highest 
perfection of excellence that can be desired, utmost limit of 
grace in human shape, sole relief of this afilicted heart that 
adores thee, though the malign enchanter that persecutes me 
has brought clouds and cataracts on my eyes, and to them, and 
them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed 
thy features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has 
not at the same time changed mine into those of some monster 
to render them loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look upon 
me with tenderness and love ; seeing in this submission that 
I make on my knees to thy transformed beauty, the humility 
with which my soul adores thee.” 

Hey-day ! My grandfather ! ” cried the girl ; much I care 
for your love-making ! Get out of the way and let us pass, 
and we ’ll thank you.” 

Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have 
got so well out of the hobble he was in. The instant the 
village lass who had done duty for Dulcinea found herself free, 
prodding her cackney with a spike she had at the end of a 
stick, she set off at full speed across the field. The ass, how- 
ever, feeling the point more acutely than usual, began cutting 
such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to the ground; 
seeing which, Don Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to 
fix and girth the pack-saddle, Avhich also had slipped under the 
ass’s belly. The pack-saddle being secured, as Don Quixote 
was about to lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms and 
put her upon her beast, the lady, getting up from the ground, 
saved him the trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short 
run, and putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped 
into the saddle more lightly than a falcon, and sat astride like 
a man, whereat Sancho said, “ Roque ! * but our lady is lighter 
than a lanner, and might teach the cleverest Cordovan or 
Mexican how to mount ; she cleared the back of the saddle in 
one jump, and without spurs she is making the hackney go 
like a zebra ; and her damsels are no way behind her, for they 
all fly like the wind ; ” which was the truth, for as soon as 
they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her, and 
sped away without looking back, for more than half a league. 

Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they 
were no longer in sight, he turned to Sancho and said, How 

* V, note 1, p. 22, chapter iv. vol. i. 


CHAPTER X. 


67 


now, Sancho ? thou seest how I am hated by enchanters ! And 
see to what a length the malice and spite they bear me go, 
when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it would give 
me to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is, I was 
born to be an example of misfortune, and the target and mark 
at which the arrows of adversity are aimed and directed. Ob- 
serve too, Sancho, that these traitors were not content with 
changing and transforming my Dulcinea, but they transformed 
and changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favored as that 
of the village girl yonder ; and at the same time they robbed 
her of that which is such a peculiar property of ladies of dis- 
tinction, that is to say, the sweet fragrance that comes of be- 
ing always among perfumes and flowers. For I must tell thee, 
Sancho, that when I approached to put Dulcinea upon her 
hackney (as thou sayest it was, though to me it appeared a she- 
ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic that made my head reel, 
and poisoned my very heart.’’ 

“ 0 scum of the earth ! ” cried Sancho at this, 0 miserable, 
spiteful enchanters ! 0 that I could see you all strung by the 
gills, like sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can 
do a great deal, and ye do much harm. It ought to have been 
enough for you, ye scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of 
my lady’s eyes into oak galls, and her hair of purest gold into the 
bristles of a red ox’s tail, and, in short, all her features from 
fair to foul, without meddling with her smell ; for by that we 
might somehow have found out what was hidden underneath 
that ugly rind ; though, to tell the truth, I never perceived her 
ugliness, but only her beauty, which was raised to the highest 
pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her right lip, like a 
mustache, with seven or eight red hairs like threads of gold, 
and more than a palm long.” 

From the correspondence which exists between those of the 
face and those of the body,” said Don Quixote, Dulcinea must 
have another mole resembling that on the thick of the thigh on 
that side on which she has the one on her face ; but hairs of 
the length thou hast mentioned are very long for moles.” 

Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,” 
replied Sancho. 

I believe it, my friend,” returned Don Quixote ; “ for 
nature bestowed nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and 
well-flnished ; and so, if she had a hundred moles like the one 
thou hast described, in her they would not be moles, but moons 


68 


DON QUIXOTE, 


and shining stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which seemed to 
me to be a pack-saddle as thou wert fixing it, was it a fiat-saddle 
or a side-saddle ? ” 

It was neither,” replied Sancho, but a jineta saddle,^ with 
a field covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.” 

“ And that I could not see all this, Sancho ! ” said Don 
Quixote ; once more I say, and will say a thousand times, I 
am the most unfortunate of men.” 

Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at 
hearing the simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. 
At length, after a good deal more conversation had passed be- 
tween them, they remounted their beasts, and followed the 
road to Saragossa, which they expected to reach in time to 
take part in a certain grand festival which is held every year 
in that illustrious city; but before they got there things 
happened to them, so many, so important, and so strange, 
that they deserve to be recorded and read, as will be seen 
farther on. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUI- 
XOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF THE CORTES OF 
DEATH.” 

Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his jour 
ney, turning over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters 
had played him in changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile 
shape of the village lass, nor could he think of any way of 
restoring her to her original form ; and these reflections so ab- 
sorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Bocinante’s 
bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, 
stopped at every step to crop the fresh grass with which the 
plain abounded. 

Sancho recalled him from his revery. Melancholy, senor,” 
said he, was made, not for beasts, but for men ; but if men 
give way to it overmuch they turn to beasts ; control yourself, 
your worship ; be yourself again ; gather up Eocinante’s reins ; 
cheer up, rouse yourself and show that gallant spirit that 
knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is this ? What 

* A saddle with a high pummel and cantle and short stirrups. 


CHAPTER XL 


69 


weakness is this ? Are we here or in France ? The devil fly 
away with all the Dulcineas in the world ; for the well-being 
of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than all the 
enchantments and transformations on earth.” 

‘^Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote in a weak and faint 
voice, hush, I say, and utter no blasphemies against that 
enchanted lady ; for I alone am to blame for her misfortune 
and hard fate ; her calamity has come of the hatred the wicked 
bear me.” 

So say I,” returned Sancho; ^^his heart T would rend in 
twain, I trow, who saw her once, to see her now.” ^ 

Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, 
“ as thou sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty ; for 
the enchantment does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or 
hide her loveliness from thee ; against me alone and against 
my eyes is the strength of its venom directed. Nevertheless, 
there is one thing which has occurred to me, and that is that 
thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as well as I 
recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls ; but eyes that 
are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a 
lady, and I am persuaded that Dulcinea’s must be green 
emeralds, full and soft, with two rainbows for eyebrows ; take 
away those pearls from her eyes and transfer them to her 
teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one 
for the other, the eyes for the teeth.” 

Very likely,” said Sancho ; for her beauty bewildered 
me as much as her ugliness did your worship ; but let us leave 
it all to God, who alone knows what is to happen in this vale 
of tears, in this evil world of ours, where there is hardly a 
thing to be found without some mixture of wickedness, roguery, 
and rascality. But one thing, senor, troubles me more than 
all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when your 
worship conquers some giant, or some other knight, and orders 
him to go and present himself before the beauty of the lady 
Dulcinea. Where is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of a 
vanquished knight, to find her ? I think I can see them 
wandering all over El Toboso, looking like noddies, and ask- 
ing for my lady Dulcinea ; and even if they meet her in the 
middle of the street they wonT know her any more than they 
would my father.” 

Perhaps, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, the enchant- 
* A scrap, apparently, of some song. 


70 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ment does not go so far as to deprive conquered and presented 
giants and knights of the power of recognizing Dulcinea ; we 
will try by experiment with one or two of the first I vanquish 
and send to her, whether they see her or not, by commanding 
them to return and give me an account of what happened to 
them in this respect/’ 

I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is ex- 
cellent,” said Sancho ; and that by this plan we shall find 
out what we want to know ; and if it be that it is only from 
your worship she is hidden, the misfortune will be more yours 
than hers ; but so long as the lady Dulcinea is well and happy, 
we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as well as 
we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time to take his 
own course ; for he is the best physician for these and greater 
ailmeuts.” 

Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he 
was prevented by a cart crossing the road full of the most 
diverse and strange personages and figures that could be im- 
agined. He who led the mules and acted as carter was a 
hideous demon ; the cart was open to the sky, without a tilt 
or cane roof,* and the first figure that presented itself to Don 
Quixote’s eyes was that of Death itself with a human face ; 
next to it was an angel with large painted wings, and at one 
side an emperor, with a crown, to all appearance of gold, on 
his head. At the feet of Death was the god called Cupid, 
without his bandage, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows ; 
there was also a knight in full armor, except that he had no 
morion or helmet, but only a hat decked with plumes of divers 
colors ; and along with these there were others with a variety of 
costumes and faces. All this, unexpectedly encountered, took 
Don Quixote somewhat aback, and struck terror into the heart 
of Sancho ; but the next instant Don Quixote was glad of it, 
believing that some new perilous adventure was presenting 
itself to him, and under this impression, and with a spirit 
prepared to face any danger, he planted himself in front of 
the cart, and in a loud and menacing tone, exclaimed, Carter, 
or coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell me at once 
who thou art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are 
thou earliest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon’s 
boat than an ordinary cart.” 

* The zarzo, a framework of reeds or canes on which the tilt is stretched 
in the country carts in Central and South Spain. 


CHAPTER XL 


71 


To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, 

Senor, we are players of Angulo el Male’s ^ company ; we 
have been acting the play of ^ The Cortes of Death’ this morn- 
ing, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, in a village behind 
that hill, and we have to act it this afternoon in that village 
which you can see from this ; and as it is so near, and to save 
the trouble of undressing and dressing again, we go in the 
costumes in which we perform. That lad there appears as 
Death, that other as an angel, that woman, the manager’s wife, 
plays the queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I 
the devil ; and I am one of the principal characters of the 
play, for in this company I take the leading parts. If you 
want to know anything more about us, ask me and I will 
answer with the utmost exactitude, for as I am a devil I am 
up to everything.” 

By the faith of a knight-errant,” replied Don Quixote, 

when I saw this cart I fancied some great adventure was 
presenting itself to me ; but I declare one must touch with the 
hand what appears to the eye, if illusions are to be avoided. 
God speed you, good people; keep your festival, and remem- 
ber, if you demand of me ought wherein I can render you 
a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child 1 
was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of the 
actor’s art.” 

While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the 
company in a mummer’s dress with a great number of bells, 
and armed with three blown ox-bladders at the end of a stick, 
joined them, and this merry-andrew approaching Don Quixote, 
began flourishing his stick and banging the ground with the 
bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the bells, 
which untoward apparition so startled Eocinante that, in spite 
of Don Quixote’s efforts to hold him in, taking the bit between 
his teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed than the 
bones of his anatomy ever gave any promise of. Sancho, who 
thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off 
Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him ; but by the time he 
reached him he was already on the ground, and beside him 
was Eocinante, who had come down with his master, the usual 
end and upshot of Eocinante’s vivacity and high spirits. But 
the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go and help Don 

* A theatrical manager and dramatist of Toledo who flourished about 
1580. 


72 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped up on 
Dapple, and beating him with them, more by the fright and 
the noise than by the pain of the blows, made him fly across 
the fields towards the village where they were going to hold 
their festival. Sancho witnessed Dapple’s career and his 
master’s fall, and did not know which of the two cases of need 
he should attend to first ; but in the end, like a good squire 
and good servant, he let his love for his master prevail over 
his affection for his ass ; though every time he saw the bladders 
rise in the air and come down on the hind quarters of his 
Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of death, and he would 
have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes 
than on the least hair of his ass’s tail. In this trouble and 
perplexity he came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier 
plight than he liked, and having helped him to mount Koci- 
nante, he said to him, Senor, the devil has carried off my 
Dapple.” 

What devil ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

The one with the bladders,” said Sancho. 

Then I will recover him,” said Don Quixote, even if he 
be shut up with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of 
hell. Follow me, Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with 
the mules of it I will make good the loss of Dapple.” 

You need not take the trouble, senor,” said Sancho ; keep 
cool, for as I now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is 
coming back to his old quarters ; ” and so it turned out, for, 
having come down with Dapple, in imitation of Don Quixote 
and Eocinante, the devil made off on foot to the town, and the 
ass came back to his master. 

For all that,” said Don Quixote, it will be well to visit 
the discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, 
even if it were the emperor himself.” 

Don’t think of it, your worship,” returned Sancho ; take 
my advice and never meddle with actors, for they are a favored 
class ; I myself have known an actor taken up for two murders, 
and yet come off scot-free ; remember that, as they are merry 
folk who give pleasure, every one favors and protects them, 
and helps and makes much of them, above all when they are 
those of the royal companies and under patent, all or most of 
whom in dress and appearance look like princes.” 

Still, for all that,” said Don Quixote, the player devil must 
not go off boasting, even if the whole human race favors him.” 


CHAPTER XL 


73 


So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near 
the town, shouting out as he went, Stay ! halt ! ye merry, 
jovial crew ! I want to teach you how to treat asses and 
animals that serve the squires of knights-errant for steeds/^ 

So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the 
cart heard and understood them, and, guessing by the words 
what the speaker’s intention was. Death in an instant jumped 
out of the cart, and the emperor, the devil carter and the 
angel after him, nor did the queen or the god Cupid stay be- 
hind ; and all armed themselves with stones and formed in 
line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their 
pebbles. Don Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a 
gallant array with uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge 
of stones, checked Eocinante and began to consider in what 
way he could attack them with the least danger to himself. 
As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing him disposed to at- 
tack this well-ordered squadron, said to him, It would be the 
height of madness to attempt such an enterprise ; remember, 
senor, that against sops from the brook,^ and plenty of them, 
there is no defensive armor in the world, except to stow one’s 
self away under a brass bell ; and besides, one should remem- 
ber that it is rashness, and not valor, for a single man to at- 
tack an army that has Death in it, and where emperors fight 
in person, with angels, good and bad, to help them ; and if 
this reflection will not make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to 
know for certain that among all these, though they look like 
kings, princes, and emperors, there is not a single knight- 
errant.” 

Now, indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote, which may and should turn me from the resolution 
I had already formed. I can not and must not draw sword, as 
I have many a time before told thee, against any one who is 
not a dubbed knight ; it is for thee, Sancho, if thou wilt, to 
take vengeance for the wrong done to thy Dapple ; and I will 
help thee from here by shouts and salutary counsels.” 

There is no occasion to take vengeance on any one, senor,” 
replied Sancho ; for it is not the part of good Christians to 
revenge wrongs ; and besides, I will arrange it with my ass to 
leave his grievance to my good-will and pleasure, and that is 
to live in peace as long as Heaven grants me life.” 

Well,” said Don Quixote, if that be thy determination, 

* Sopa de array o — a slang phrase for pebbles. 


74 


DON QUIXOTE. 


good Sancho, sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest SanchOj 
let us leave these phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of 
better and worthier adventures ; for, from what I see of this 
country, we can not fail to find plenty of marvellous ones in 
it.” 

He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of 
his Dapple, Death and his whole flying squadron returned to 
their cart and pursued their journey, and thus the dread ad- 
venture of the cart of Death ended happily, thanks to the 
sound advice Sancho gave his master ; who had, the following 
day, a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the 
last, with an enamoured knight-errant. 


CHAPTER XII. 

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT 

DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS. 

The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, 
Don Quixote and his squire passed under some tall shady trees, 
and Don Quixote at Sancho’s persuasion ate a little from the 
store carried by Dapple, and over their supper Sancho said to 
his master, Sefior, what a fool I should have looked if I had 
chosen for my reward the spoils of the first adventure your 
worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares. 
After all, after all, ‘ a sparrow in the hand is better than a 
vulture on the wing.’ ” ^ 

“ At the same time, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, if thou 
hadst let me attack them as I wanted, at the very least the 
emperor’s gold crown and Cupid’s painted wings would have 
fallen to thee as spoils, for I should have taken them by force 
and given them into thy hands.” 

The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors,” 
said Sancho, were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or 
tin.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote, for it would not be right 
that the accessories of the drama should be real, instead of 
being mere fictions and semblances, like the drama itself; 
towards which, Sancho — and, as a necessary consequence, 
* Prov. 167. 


CHAPTER XI L 


T5 


towards those who represent and produce it — I would that 
thou wert favorably disposed, for they are all instruments of 
great good to the State, placing before us at every step a 
mirror in which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in 
human life ; nor is there any similitude ^ that shows us more 
faithfully what we are and ought to be, than the play and the 
players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted in 
which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers 
other personages were introduced ? One plays the villain, 
another the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldiery one 
the sharp-witted fool, another the foolish lover ; and when the 
play is over, and they have put off the dresses they wore in it, 
all the actors become equal.’’ 

Yes, I have seen that,” said Sancho. 

Well, then,” said Don Quixote, the same thing happens 
in the comedy and life of this world, where some play emperors, 
others popes, and, in short, all the characters that can be 
brought into a play ; but when it is over, that is to say when 
life ends, death strips them all of the garments that distinguish 
one from the other, and all are equal in the grave.” 

A fine comparison ! ” said Sancho ; “ though not so new 
but that I have heard it many and many a time, as well as 
that other one of the game of chess ; how, so long as the game 
lasts, each piece has its own particular office, and when the 
game is finished they are all mixed, jumbled up and shaken 
together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like 
ending life in the grave.” ^ 

Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, 
Sancho,” said Don Quixote. 

Ay,” said Sancho ; it must be that some of your worship’s 
shrewdness sticks to me ; land that, of itself, is barren and dry 
will come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it ; what 
I mean is that your worship’s conversation has been the dung 
that has fallen on the barren soil of my dry wit, and the time 

* In place of comparacion — " similitude ” — some correctors would 
read comparicion — " appearance ” in the legal sense, as in the phrase *' to 
put in an appearance ; ” but I think the original reading makes better 
sense. 

* Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays 
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days, 

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, 

And one by one back in the Closet lays. 

Omar Khayyam. (Fitzgerald’s Translation, 1868.) 
Don Quixote, it will be seen, held Teufelsdrockh’s philosophy of clothes. 


76 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I have been in your service and society has been the tillage ; 
and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance 
that will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breed- 
ing that your worship has made in my parched understanding.’^ 

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s affected phraseology, and 
perceived that what he said about his improvement was true, 
•for now and then he spoke in a way that surprised him; 
though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and 
attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over from 
the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance ; 
and where he showed his culture and his memory to the 
greatest advantage was in dragging in proverbs, no matter 
whether they had any bearing or not upon the subject in hand, 
as may have been seen already and will be noticed in the 
course of this history. 

In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the 
night, but Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his 
eyes, as he used to say when he wanted to go to sleep ; and 
stripping Dapple he left him at liberty to graze his fill. He 
did not remove Kocinante’s saddle, as his master’s express 
orders were, that so long as they were in the field or not sleep- 
ing under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped — the ancient 
usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take 
off the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove 
the saddle from the horse — never ! Sancho acted accordingly, 
and gave him the same liberty he had given Dapple, betw'een 
whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and 
so strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father to 
son, that the author of this veracious history devoted some 
special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the propriety 
and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert 
therein ; although at times he forgets this resolution of his and 
describes how eagerly the two beasts would scratch one an- 
other when they were together, and how, w^hen they were tired 
or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple’s, stretch- 
ing half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would 
stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, 
or at least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not 
drive them to go and look for food. I may add that they say 
the author left it on record that he likened their friendship to 
that of Hisus and Euryalus, and Py lades and Orestes ; and if 
that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of mankind, 


CHAPTER XII, 


77 


how firm the friendship must have been between these two 
peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships with 
one another so badly. This was why it was said — 

For friend no longer is there friend ; 

The reeds tnrn lances now. 

And some one else has sung — 

Friend to friend the hug, etc.* 

and let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when 
he compared the friendship of these animals to that of men ; 
for men have received many lessons from beasts, and learned 
many important things, as, for example, the clyster from the 
stork, emetics and gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from 
the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the elephant, 
and loyalty from the horse. 

Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while 
Don Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak ; but a short time 
only had elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him, 
and rising up startled, he listened and looked in the direction 
the noise came from, and perceived two men on horseback, one 
of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the 
other, “ Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the 
horses, for, so far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for 
them, and the solitude and silence my love-sick thoughts have 
need of.” As he said this he stretched himself upon the ground, 
and as he flung himself down, the armor in which he was clad 
rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a 
knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he 
shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him 
back to his senses, and said in a low voice to him, Brother 
Sancho, we have got an adventure.” 

“ God send us a good one,” said Sancho ; and where, senor, 
may her ladyship the adventure be ? ” 

Where, Sancho ? ” replied Don Quixote ; “ turn thine eyes 
and look, and thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, 

* The first quotation is from one of the ballads on the dissensions of the 
Zegris and Abencerrages in Gines Perez de Hita’s Guerras Civiles de Gray 
nada. I do not know who "sang” the other, but it is a popular phrase, 
and in full is " from friend to friend (or " between friends ”) the bug in 
the eye.” Tener dninche en el ojo^ or Sangre en el ojo^ is "to keep a sharp 
lookout.” 


78 


DON QUIXOTE. 


it strikes me, is not over and above happy, for I saw him fling 
himself off his horse and throw himself on the ground with a 
certain air of dejection, and his armor rattled as he fell.” 

“ Well,” said Sancho, how does your worship make out that 
to be an adventure ? ” 

I do not mean to say,” returned Don Quixote, that it is a 
complete adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it 
is in this way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is 
tuning a lute or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and 
clearing his chest he must be getting ready to sing something.” 

Faith, you are right,” said Sancho, and no doubt he is 
some enamoured knight.” 

There is no knight-errant that is not,” said Don Quixote ; 
“ but let us listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we 
shall extract the ball of his thoughts ; ^ because out of the 
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” 

Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of 
the Grove’s voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, 
stopped him, and listening attentively the pair heard him sing 
this 


SONNET. 

Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold ; 

Declare the terms that I am to obey ; 

My will to yours submissively I mould. 

And from your law my feet shall never stray. 

Would you I die, to silent grief a prey ? 

Then count me even now as dead and cold ; 

Would you I tell my woes in some new way ? 

Then shall my tale by love itself be told. 

The unison of opposites to prove. 

Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I ; 

But still, obedient to the laws of love, 

Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast, 

Whale’er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest 
Indelible for all eternity.^ 

* A reference to the often quoted proverb, por el Tiilo se saca el ovillo. 

’ The pieces of verse introduced in the Second Part are more or less 
burlesques, and sometimes, as here and in chapter xviii., imitations of the 
affected poetry of the day. The verses in the First Part (except, of course, 
the commendatory verses, and those at the end of the last chapter) are seri- 
ous efforts, and evidently regarded by Cervantes with some complacency. 
The difference is significant. 


CHAPTER Xli, 


79 


With an Ah me ! ” that seemed to be drawn from the inmost 
recesses of his heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay 
to an end, and shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy 
and piteous voice, “ 0 fairest and most ungrateful woman on 
earth! What I can it be, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, 
that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away 
and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils ? 
Is it not enough that I have compelled all the knights of 
Kavarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, 
and finally all the knights of La Mancha, to confess thee the 
most beautiful in the world ? ” 

<< Kot so,’^ said Don Quixote at this, for I am of La Mancha, 
and I have never confessed anything of the sort, nor could 
I nor should I confese a thing so much to the prejudice of 
my lady’s beauty ; thou seest how this knight is raving, 
Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more about 
himself.” 

That he will,” returned Sancho, for he seems in a mood 
to bewail himself for a month at a stretch.” 

But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, 
hearing voices near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, 
stood up and exclaimed in a distinct but courteous tone, “ Who 
goes there ? What are you ? Do you belong to the number 
of the happy or of the miserable ? ” 

“Of the miserable,” answered I^on Quixote. 

“ Then come to me,” said he of the Grove, “ and rest assured 
that it is to woe itself and affliction itself you come.” 

Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and 
courteous manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho. 

The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, 
“ Sit down here, sir knight ; for, that you are one, and of those 
that profess knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to 
have found you in this place, where solitude and night, the 
natural couch and proper retreat of knights-errant, keep you 
company.” To which Don Quixote made answer, “ A knight 
I am of the profession you mention; and though sorrows, 
misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode, 
the compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not 
been thereby banished from it. From what you have just now 
sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from the 
love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament.” 

In the mean time, they had seated themselves together on 


80 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the hard ground peaceably and socially, just as if, as soon as 
day broke, they were not going to break one another’s heads. 

Are you, sir knight, in love perchance ? ” asked he of the 
Grove of Don Quixote. 

By mischance I am,” replied Don Quixote ; though the 
ills arising from well-bestowed affections should be esteemed 
favors rather than misfortunes.” 

“ That is true,” returned he of the Grove, “ if scorn did not 
unsettle our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it 
looks like revenge.” 

‘‘ I was never scorned by my lady,” said Don Quixote. 

Certainly not,” said Sancho, who stood close by, for my 
lady is as gentle as a lamb, and softer than a roll of butter.” 

Is this your squire ? ” asked he of the Grove. 

He is,” said Don Quixote. 

I never yet saw a squire,” said he of the Grove, who 
ventured to speak when his master was speaking; at least, 
there is mine, who is as big as his father, and it can not be 
proved that he has ever opened his lips when I am speaking.” 

By my faith, then,” said Sancho, I have spoken, and am 
fit to speak, in the presence of one as much, or even — but 
never mind — it only makes it worse to stir it.” 

The Squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to 
him, Let us two go where we can talk in squire style as much 
as we please, and leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it 
out over the story of their loves ; and, depend upon it, day- 
break will find them at it without having made an end of it.” 

“ So be it by all means,” said Sancho ; and I will tell your 
worship who I am, that you may see whether I am to be 
reckoned among the number of the most talkative squires.” 

With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between 
them there passed a conversation as droll as that which passed 
between their masters was serious. 


CHAPTER XI I L 


81 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT 
OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, 
AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE 
TWO SQUIRES. 

The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling 
the story of their lives, the others the story of their loves ; 
but the history relates first of all the conversation of the 
servants, and afterwards takes up that of the masters ; and it 
says that, withdrawing a little from the others, he of the Grove 
said to Sancho, A hard life it is we lead and live, senor, we 
that are squires to knights-errant ; verily, we eat our bread in 
the sweat of our faces, which is one of the curses God laid on 
our first parents.’^ 

“ It may be said, too,” added Sancho, that we eat it in the 
chill of our bodies ; for who gets more heat and cold than the 
miserable squires of knight-errantry ? Even so it would not 
be so bad if we had something to eat, for woes are lighter if 
there’s bread ; ^ but sometimes we go a day or two without 
breaking our fast, except with the wind that blows.” 

All that,” said he of the Grove, “ may be endured and put 
up with when we have hopes of reward ; for, unless the knight- 
errant he serves is excessively unlucky, after a few turns the 
squire will at least find himself rewarded with a fine govern- 
ment of some island or some fair country.” 

I,” said Sancho, “ have already told my master that I shall 
be content with the government of some island, and he is so 
noble and generous that he has promised it to me ever so 
many times.” 

“ I,” said he of the Grove, shall be satisfied with a canonry 
for my services, and my master has already assigned me one.” 

Your master,” said Sancho, ^^no doubt is a knight in the 
Church line, and can bestow rewards of that sort on his good 
squire ; but mine is only a layman ; though I remember some 
clever, but, to my mind, designing people, strove to persuade 
him to try and become an archbishop. He, however, would 
not be anything but an emperor ; but I was trembling all the 
time lest he should take a fancy to go into the Church, net 
» ProT. 173. 


VoL. II. — 6 


82 


DON QUIXOTE, 


finding myself fit to hold office in it ; for I may tell you, 
though I seem a man, I am no better than a beast for the 
Church/’ 

Well, then, you are wrong there,” said he of the Grove; 
“ for those island governments are not all satisfactory ; some 
are awkward, some are poor, some are dull, and, in short, the 
highest and choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares 
and troubles which the unhappy wight to whose lot it has 
fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far better would it be for us 
who have adopted this accursed service, to go back to our own 
houses, and there employ ourselves in pleasanter occupations 
— in hunting or fishing, for instance ; for what squire in the 
world is there so poor as not to have a hack and a couple of 
greyhounds and a fishing-rod to amuse himself within his own 
village ? ” 

I am not in want of any of those things,” said Sancho ; 
to be sure I have no hack, but I have an ass that is worth my 
master’s horse twice over ; God send me a bad Easter, and that 
the next one I am to see, if I would swap, even if I got four 
bushels of barley to boot. You will laugh at the value I put 
on my Dapple — for dapple is the color of my beast. As to 
greyhounds, I can’t want for them, for there are enough and to 
spare in my town ; and, moreover, there is more pleasure in 
sport when it is at other people’s expense.” 

“ In truth and earnest, sir squire,” said he of the Grove, I 
have made up my mind and determined to have done with these 
drunken vagaries of these knights, and go back to my village, 
and bring up my children ; for I have three, like three Oriental 
pearls.” 

I have two,” said Sancho, that might he presented before 
the Pope himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for 
a countess, please God, though in spite of her mother.” 

“ And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a coun- 
tess ? ” asked he of the Grove. 

Fifteen, a couple of years more or less,” answered Sancho ; 
but she is as tall as a lance, and as fresh as an April morning, 
and as strong as a porter.” 

Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a 
nymph of the greenwood,” said he of the Grove ; ‘‘ whoreson 
strumpet ! what pith the rogue must have ! ” 

To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, She’s no 
strumpet, nor was her mother, nor will either of them be, please 


CHAPTER XIIL 


8.S 


God, while I live ; speak more civilly ; for one bred up among 
knight s-errant, who are courtesy itself, your words don’t seem 
to me to be very becoming.” 

0 how little you know about compliments, sir squire,” re- 
turned he of the Grove. What I don’t you know that when a 
horseman delivers a good lance thrust at the bull in the plaza, 
or when any one does anything very well, the people are wont 
to say, ‘ Ha, w'horeson rip ! how well he has done it ! ’ and that 
what seems to be abuse in the expression is high praise ? Dis- 
own sons and daughters, senor, who don’t do what deserves that 
compliments of this sort should be paid to their parents.” 

‘‘ I do disown them,” replied Sancho, and in this way, and 
by the same reasoning, you might call me and my children and 
my wife all the strumpets in the world, for all they do and say 
is of a kind that in the highest degree deserves the same praise ; 
and to see them again I pray God to deliver me from mortal 
sin, or, what comes to the same thing, to deliver me from this 
perilous calling of squire into which I have fallen a second time, 
decoyed and beguiled by a purse with a hundred ducats that I 
found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena ; and the devil 
is always putting a bag full of doubloons before my eyes, here, 
there, everywhere, until I fancy at every step I am putting my 
hand on it, and hugging it, and carrying it home with me, and 
making investments, and getting interest, and living like a 
prince ; and so long as I think of this I make light of all the 
hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master of mine, who, 
T well know, is more of a madman than a knight.” 

There ’s why they say that ‘ covetousness bursts the bag,’ ” ‘ 
said he of the Grove ; but if you come to talk of that sort, 
there is not a greater one in the world than my master, for he 
is one of those of whom they say, ^ The cares of others kill the 
ass ; ’ ^ for, in order that another knight may recover the 
senses he has lost, he makes a madman of himself and goes 
looking for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly in his 
own face.” 

And is he in love, now ? ” asked Sancho. 

He is,” said he of the Grove, “with one Casildea de Van- 
dal ia, the rawest and best roasted lady the whole world 
could produce ; ® but the rawness is not the only foot he limps 

* Prov. 60. * Prov. 64. 

* Crudo — " raw ” — means also cruel, but even with this explanation 
the squire’s humor is not very intelligible > 


84 


DON QUIXOTE. 


on, for he has greater schemes rumbling in his bowels, as will 
be seen before many hours are over.” 

There ’s no road so smooth but it has some hole or hinder- 
ance in it,” said Sancho ; in other houses they cook beans, 
but in mine it ’s by the potful ; ^ madness will have more fol- 
lowers and hangers-on than sound sense ; but if there be any 
truth in the common saying, that to have companions in 
trouble gives some relief, I may take consolation from you, 
inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own.” 

“ Crazy but valiant,” replied he of the Grove, and more 
roguish than crazy or valiant.” 

“ Mine is not that,” said Sancho ; I mean he has nothing 
of the rogue in him ; on the contrary, he has the soul of a 
pitcher j ^ he has no thought of doing harm to any one, only 
good to all, nor has he any malice whatever in him ; a child 
might persuade him that it is night at noonday ; and for this 
simplicity I love him as the core of my heart, and I can’t 
bring myself to leave him, let him do ever such foolish 
things.” 

For all that, brother and senor,” said he of the Grove, if 
the blind lead the blind both are in danger of falling into the 
pit. It is better for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back 
to our own quarters; for those who seek adventures don’t 
always find good ones.” 

Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle 
seemed somewhat ropy and dry, observing which the compas- 
sionate Squire of the Grove said, “ It seems to me that with all 
this talk of ours our tongues are sticking to the roofs of our 
mouths ; but I have a pretty good loosener hanging from the 
saddle-bow of my horse,” and getting up he came back the 
next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty half a yard 
across ; and this is no exaggeration, for it was made of a house 
rabbit so big that Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be made 
of a goat, not to say a kid, and looking at it he said, And do 
you carry this with you, senor ? ” 

Why, what are you thinking about ? ” said the other ; do 
you take me for some paltry squire ? I carry a better larder 
on my horse’s croup than a general takes with him when he 
goes on a march.” 

Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark 

* Prov. 44. " I get more than my share of ill-luck.” 

* Tener alma de cantaro — to te simplicity itself. 


CHAPTER XI I L 


8o 


bolted mouthfuls like the knots on a tether,' and said he, You 
are a proper trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous 
and grand, as this banquet shows, which, if it has not come 
here by magic art, at any rate has the look of it ; not like me, 
unlucky beggar, that have nothing more in my alforjas than a 
scrap of cheese, so hard that one might brain a giant with it, 
and, to keep it company, a few dozen carobs ^ and as many 
more filberts and walnuts ; thanks to the austerity of my master, 
and the idea he has and the rule he follows, that knights -errant 
must not live or sustain themselves on anything except dried 
fruits and the herbs of the field.” 

By my faith, brother,” said he of the Grove, my stomach 
is not made for thistles, or wild pears, or roots out of the 
woods ; let our masters do as they like, with their chivalry 
notions and laws, and eat what those enjoin ; I carry my prog- 
basket and this bota hanging to the saddle-bow, whatever they 
may say ; and it is such an object of worship with me, and I 
love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am kissing and 
embracing it over and over again ; ” and so saying he thrust it 
into Sancho’s hands, who raising it aloft pressed to his mouth, 
gazed at the stars for a quarter of an hour ; ® and when he had 
done drinking let his head fall on one side, and giving a deep 
sigh, exclaimed, Ah, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is ! ” 

“ There, you see,” said he of the Grove as he heard Sancho’s 
exclamation, how you have called this wine whoreson by way 
of praise.” 

Well,” said Sancho, ‘‘ I own it, and I grant it is no dis- 
honor to call any one whoreson when it is to be understood in 
the sense of praise. But tell me, senor, by what you love best, 
is this Ciudad Beal wine ? ” ^ 

0 rare wine-taster ! ” said he of the Grove ; “ nowhere else 
indeed does it come from, and it has some years’ age too.” 

“ Leave me alone for that,” said Sancho ; never fear but I ’ll 
hit upon the place it came from somehow. What would you say, 
sir squire, to my having such a great natural instinct in judg- 
ing wines that you have only to let me smell one and I can tell 

' Either as big, or following one another as closely, as the knots on a 
tether. 

* The bean of the carob tree ; '' St. John’s bread.” 

^ Any one wRo has ever watched a Spanish peasant with a boia knows 
now graphic this is. 

* The chief town of La Mancha, and also of the great wine-growing dis* 
trict of which the Valdepenas is the best known product. 


86 


DON QUIXOTE, 


positively its country, its kind, its flavor and soundness, the 
changes it will undergo, and everything that appertains to a 
wine ? But it is no wonder, for I have had in my family, on 
my father’s side, the two best wine-tasters that have been known 
in La Mancha for many a long year, and to prove it I ’ll tell you 
now a thing that happened them. They gave the two of them 
some wine out of a cask, to try, asking their opinion as to the 
condition, quality, goodness or badness of the wine. One of 
them tried it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more 
than bring it to his nose. The first said the wine had a flavor 
of iron, the second said it had a stronger flavor of cordovan.^ 
The owner said the cask was clean, and that nothing had been 
added to the wine from which it could have got a flavor of 
either iron or leather. Nevertheless, these two great wine- 
taster? held to what they had said. Time went by, the wine 
was sold, and when they came to clean out the cask, they found 
in it a small key hanging to a thong of cordovan ; see now if one 
who comes of the same stock has not a right to give his opinion 
in such like cases.” ^ 

“ Therefore, I say,” said he of the Grove, let us give up 
going in quest of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not 
go looking for cakes,^ but return to our cribs, for God will find 
us there if it be his will.” 

Until my master reaches Saragossa,” said Sancho, ^^I’ll 
remain in his service ; after that we ’ll see.” 

The end of it was that the two squires’ talked so much and 
drank so much that sleep had to tie their tongues and moder- 
ate their thirst, for to quench it was impossible ; and so the 
pair of them fell asleep clinging to the now nearly empty bota 
and with half-chewed morsels in their mouths ; and there we 
will leave them for the present, to relate what passed between 
the Knight of the Grove and him of the Bueful Countenance. 

’ The Cordovan leather, a legacy of the Moors, was somewhat like 
morocco. 

^ Cervantes nas introduced the same story, with some slight modifica- 
tions, in the interlude of the Eleccion de los Alcaldes de Daqanzo. 

^ Prov. 116 . 


CHAPTER XIV. 


87 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF 
THE GROVE. 

Among the many things that passed between Don Quixote 
and the Knight of the Wood, the history tells us he of the 
Grove said to Don Quixote, In fine, sir knight, I would have 
you know that my destiny, or, more properly speaking, my 
choice led me to fall in love with the peerless Casildea de 
Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has no peer, whether 
it be in bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank and beauty. 
This same Casildea, then, that I speak of, requited my honor- 
able passion and gentle aspirations by compelling me, as his 
stepmother did Hercules, to engage in many perils of various 
sorts, at the end of each promising me that, with the end of 
the next, the object of my hopes should be attained; but my 
labors have gone on increasing link by link until they are past 
counting, nor do I know what will be the last one that is to be 
the beginning of the accomplishment of my chaste desires. 
On one occasion she bade me go and challenge the famous 
giantess of Seville, La Giralda by name, who is as mighty and 
strong as if made of brass, and though never stirring from one 
spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in the world.^ 
I came, I saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and be- 
have herself, for nothing but north winds blew for more than 
a week. Another time I was ordered to lift those ancient 
stones, the mighty bulls of Guisando,^ an enterprise that 
might more fitly be intrusted to porters than to knights. 
Again, she bade me fling myself into the cavern of Cabra ^ — 
an unparalleled and awful peril — and bring her a minute ac- 
count of all that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I stopped 
the motion of the Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I 
flung myself into the cavern and brought to light the secrets of 

* The colossal statue of Faith that acts as weathercock on the top of the 
great moorish tower of the same name which serves as belfry to the Cathe- 
dral at Seville. 

* Rude stone figures of animals resembling the hippopotamus rather than 
the bull, the origin of which is a disputed point among Spanish antiqua- 
rians. They are not, however, confined to Guisando; there are, for in- 
stance, four well-preserved specimens at Avila. 

3 A chasm in the Sierra de Cabra, south of Cordova, probably the shaft 
of an ancient mine. 


88 


DON QUIXOTE, 


its abyss ; and my hopes are as dead as dead can be, and her 
scorn and her commands as lively as ever. To be brief, last of 
all she has commanded me to go through all the province of 
Spain and compel all the knights-errant wandering therein to 
confess that she surpasses all women alive to-day in beauty, 
and that I am the most valiant and the most deeply enamoured 
knight on earth ; in support of which claim I have already 
travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have there van- 
quished several knights who have dared to contradict me ; but 
what I most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished 
in single combat that so famous knight Don Quixote of L,a 
Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more beau- 
tiful than his Dulcinea 5 and in this one victory I hold myself 
to have conquered all the knights in the world ; for this Don 
Quixote that I speak of has vanquished them all, and I having 
vanquished him, his glory, his fame, and his honor have passed 
and are transferred to my person ; for 

The more the vanquished hath of fair renown, 

The greater glory gilds the victor’s crown.* 

Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote 
are now set down to my account and have become mine.’^ 

Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the 
Grove, and was a thousand times on the point of telling him 
he lied, and had the lie direct already on the tip of his tongue ; 
but he restrained himself as well as he could, in order to force 
him to confess the lie with his own lips ; so he said to him 
quietly, As to what you say, sir knight, about having van- 
quished most of the knights of Spain, or even of the whole 
world, I say nothing ; but that you have vanquished Don 
Quixote of La Mancha I consider doubtful ; it may have been 
some other that resembled him, although there are few like 
him.’’ 

“ How ! not vanquished ? ” said he of the Grove ; by the 
heaven that is above us I fought Don Quixote and overcame 
him and made him yield ; and he is a man of tall stature, 
gaunt features, long, lank limbs, with hair turning gray, an 
aquiline nose rather hooked, and large black drooping mus- 
taches ; he does battle under the name of ‘ The Knight of the 

* Lines quoted, but incorrectly, from the beginning of the Araucaria of 
Ercilla, who apparently borrowed them from the old poet the Archpriest 
of Hita. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


89 


Rueful Countenance/ and he has for squire a peasant called 
Sancho Panza ; he presses the loins and rules the reins of a 
famous steed called Rocinante ; and lastly, he has for the mis- 
tress of his will a certain Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a 
time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just as I call mine Casildea de 
Vandalia because her name is Casilda and she is of Andalusia. 
If all these tokens are not enough to vindicate the truth of 
what I say, here is my sword, that will compel incredulity 
itself to give credence to it.’’ 

Calm yourself, sir knight,” said Don Quixote, and give 
ear to what I am about to say to you. I would have you 
know that this Don Quixote you speak of is the greatest friend 
I have in the world ; so much so that I may say I regard him 
in the same light as my own person ; and from the precise and 
clear indications you have given I can not but think that he 
must be the very one you have vanquished. On the other 
hand, I see with my eyes and feel with my hands that it is 
impossible it can have been the same ; unless indeed it be that, 
as he has many enemies who are enchanters, and one in partic- 
ular who is always persecuting him, some one of these may 
have taken his shape in order to allow himself to be vanquished, 
so as to defraud him of the fame that his exalted achievements 
as a knight have earned and acquired for him throughout the 
known world. And in confirmation of this, I must tell you, 
too, that it is but ten hours since these said enchanters his 
enemies transformed the shape and person of the fair Dulcinea 
del Toboso into a foul and mean village lass, and in the same 
way they must have transformed Don Quixote ; and if all this 
does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what I say, 
here is Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by arms, on 
foot or on horseback or in any way you please.” 

And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, 
waiting to see what the Knight of the Grove would do, who 
in an equally calm voice said in reply, Pledges don’t distress 
a good paymaster ; ^ he who has succeeded in vanquishing you 
once when transformed. Sir Don Quixote, may fairly hope to 
subdue you in your own proper shape ; but as it is not becom- 
ing for knights to perform their feats of arms in the dark, like 
highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that the sun 
may behold our deeds ; and the conditions of our combat shall 
be that the vanquished shall be at the victor’s disposal, to da 
* Prov. 164. 


90 


DON QUIXOTE. 


all that he may enjoin, provided the injunction be such as shall 
be becoming a knight.” 

“ I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms,” 
replied Don Quixote ; and so saying, they betook themselves 
to where their squires lay, and found them snoring, and in the 
same posture they were in when sleep fell upon them. They 
roused them up, and bade them get the horses ready, as at sun- 
rise they were to engage in a bloody and arduous single combat ; 
at which intelligence Sancho was aghast and thunderstruck, 
trembling for the safety of his master because of the mighty 
deeds he had heard the Squire of the Grove ascribe to his ; but 
without a word the two squires went in quest of their cattle ; 
for by this time the three horses and the ass had smelt one 
another out, and were all together. 

On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, You must 
know, brother, that it is the custom with the fighting men of 
Andalusia, when they are godfathers ^ in any quarrel, not to 
stand idle with folded arms while their godsons fight ; I say so 
to remind you that while our masters are fighting, we, too, 
have to fight, and knock one another to shivers.” 

That custom, sir squire,” replied Sancho, may hold good 
among those bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly 
not among the squires of knights-errant ; at least, I have never 
heard my master speak of any custom of the sort, and he 
knows all the laws of knight-errantry by heart ; but granting 
it true that there is an express law that squires are to fight 
while their masters are fighting, I don’t mean to obey it, but 
to pay the penalty that may be laid on peacefully minded 
squires like myself ; for I am sure it can not be more than two 
pounds of wax,2 and I would rather pay that, for I know it 
will cost me less than the lint I shall be at the expense of to 
mend my head, which I look upon as broken and split already ; 
there ’s another thing that makes it impossible for me to fight, 
that I have no sword, for I never carried one in my life.” 

I know a good remedy for that,” said he of the Grove ; I 
have here two linen bags of the same size ; you shall take one, 
and I the other, and we will fight at bag blows with equal arms.” 

If that ’s the way, so be it with all my heart,” said Sancho, 
for that sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of us 
instead of hurting us.” 

* i.e. seconds. 

• The fine imposed in some fraternities on absent members. 


CHAPTER XIV, 


91 


That will not do,” said the other, “ for we must put into 
bags, to keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen 
nice smooth pebbles, all of the same weight ; and in this way 
we shall be able to baste one another without doing ourselves 
any harm or mischief.” 

Body of my father ! ” said Sancho, see what marten and 
sable, and pads of carded cotton he is putting into the bags, 
that our heads may not be broken and our bones beaten to 
jelly ! But even if they are filled with floss silk, I can tell 
you, senor, I am not going to fight ; let our masters fight, that ’s 
their lookout, and let us drink and live ; for time will take 
care to ease us of our lives, without our going to look for 
fillips ^ so that they may be finished ofi before their proper 
time comes and they drop from ripeness.” 

“ Still,” returned he of the Grove, we must fight, if it be 
only for half an hour.” 

By no means,” said Sancho ; I am not going to be so dis- 
courteous or so ungrateful as to have any quarrel, be it ever so 
small, with one I have eaten and drunk with ; besides, who 
the devil could bring himself to fight in cold blood, without 
anger or provocation ? ” 

I can remedy that entirely,” said he of the Grove, and in 
this way : before we begin the battle, I will come up to your 
worship fair and softly, and give you three or four buffets, 
with which I shall stretch you at my feet and rouse your 
anger, though it were sleeping sounder than a dormouse.” 

To match that plan,” said Sancho, I have another that 
is not a whit behind it ; I will take a cudgel, and before your 
worship comes near enough to waken my anger I will send 
yours so sound to sleep with whacks, that it won’t waken un- 
less it be in the other world, where it is known that I am not 
a man to let my face be handled by any one ; let each look out 
for the arrow ^ — though the surer way would be to let every 
one’s anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of any one, and 
a man may come for wool and go back shorn ; ^ God gave his 
blessing to peace and his curse to quarrels ; ^ if a hunted cat, 

* Apetites. Hartzenbusch proposes arhitrios — " expedients ; ” but it is 
hardly a case that calls for emendation, and there is a flavor of Sancho in 
the idea as it stands. 

* Prov. 248. According to Covarrubias, a metaphor taken from rabbit- 
shooting with the crossbow, when each sportsman should confine hia 
attention to looking for his own arrows, or, more properly, bolts, virotes, 

^ Prov. 124. Prov. 81. 


92 


DON QUIXOTE, 


surrounded and hard pressed, turns into a lion, God knows 
what I, who am a man, may turn into ; and so from this time 
forth I warn you, sir squire, that all the harm and mischief 
that may come of our quarrel will be put down to your 
account/’ 

^^Very good,” said he of the Grove; ‘^God will send the 
dawn and we shall be all right.” 

And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in 
the trees, and with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to 
welcome and salute the fresh morn that was beginning to show 
the beauty of her countenance at the gates and balconies of the 
east, shaking from her locks a profusion of liquid pearls, in 
which dulcet moisture bathed ; the plants, too, seemed to shed 
and shower down a pearly spray, the willows distilled sweet 
manna, the fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the woods re- 
joiced, and the meadows arrayed themselves in all their glory 
at her coming. But hardly had the light of day made it possi- 
ble to see and distinguish things, when the first object that pre- 
sented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the Squire of the 
Grove’s nose, which was so big that it almost overshadowed his 
whole body. It is, in fact, stated, that it was of enormous size, 
hooked in the middle, covered with warts, and of a mulberiy 
color like an egg-plant ; it hung down two fingers’-lengths below 
his mouth, and the size, the color, the warts, and the bend of it, 
made his face so hideous, that Sancho, as he looked at him, began 
to tremble hand and foot like a child in convulsions, and he 
vowed in his heart to let himself be given two hundred buffets, 
sooner than be provoked to fight that monster. Don Quixote 
examined his adversary, and found that he already had his hel- 
met on and the visor lowered, so that he could not see his face ; 
he observed, however, that he was a sturdily built man, but not 
very tall in stature. Over his armor he wore a surcoat or cas- 
sock of what seemed to be the finest cloth of gold, all bespangled 
with glittering mirrors like little moons, which gave him an ex- 
tremely gallant and splendid appearance ; above his helmet flut- 
tered a great quantity of plumes, green, yellow, and white, and 
his lance, which was leaning againt a tree, was very long and 
stout, and had a steel point more than a palm in length. 

Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what 
he saw and observed he concluded that the said knight must be 
a man of great strength, but he did not for all that give way to 
fear, like Sancho Panza ; on the contrary, with a composed and 



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CHAPTER XIV. 


93 


dauntless air, lie said to the Knight of the Mirrors, If, sir 
knight, your great eagerness to fight has not banished your 
courtesy, by it I would entreat you to raise your visor a little, 
in order that I may see if the comeliness of your countenance 
corresponds with that of your equipment.’’ 

Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this 
emprise, sir knight,” replied he of the Mirrors, “ you will have 
more than enough time and leisure to see me ; and if now I do 
not comply with your request, it is because it seems to me I 
should do a serious wrong to the fair Casildea de Vandalia in 
wasting time while I stopped to raise my visor before compel- 
ling you to confess what you are already aware I maintain.” 

Well then,” said Don Quixote, while we are mounting 
you can at least tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you 
said you vanquished.” 

To that we answer you,” ^ said he of the Mirrors, that 
you are as like the very knight I vanquished as one egg is like 
another, but as you say enchanters persecute you, I will not 
venture to say positively whether you are the said person or 
not.” 

That,” said Don Quixote, is enough to convince me that 
you are under a deception ; however, entirely to relieve you of it, 
let our horses be brought, and in less time than it would take 
you to raise your visor, if God, my lady, and my arm stand me 
in good stead, I shall see your face, and you shall see that I am 
not the vanquished Don Quixote you take me to be.” 

With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don 
Quixote wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper dis- 
tance to charge back upon his adversary, and he of the Mirrors 
did the same ; but Don Quixote had not moved away twenty 
paces when he heard himself called by the other, and, each re- 
turning half-way, he of the Mirrors said to him, Remember, 
sir knight, that the terms of our combat are, that the van- 
quished, as I said before, shall be at the victor’s disposal.” 

I am aware of it already,” said Don Quixote ; provided 
what is commanded and imposed upon the vanquished be things 
that do not transgress the limits of chivalry.” 

That is understood,” replied he of the Mirrors. 

At that moment the extraordinary nose of the squire pre- 
sented itself to Don Quixote’s view, and he was no less amazed 
than Sancho at the sight ; insomuch that he set him down as a 
* The formal commencement of the answer to a petition to the crown. 


94 


DON QUIXOTE, 


monster of some kind, or a human being of some new species 
or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his master retiring to run 
his course, did not like to be left alone with the nosey man, 
fearing that with one flap of that nose on his own the battle 
would be all over for him and he would be left stretched on 
the ground, either by the blow or with fright ; so that he ran 
after his master, holding on to Eocinante’s stirrup-leather, and 
when it seemed to him time to turn about, he said, I implore 
of your worship, senor, before you turn to charge, to help me 
up into this cork tree, from which I will be able to witness the 
gallant encounter your worship is going to have with this knight, 
more to my taste and better than from the ground.’’ 

“ It seems to me rather, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, that 
thou wouldst mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without 
danger.” 

‘‘ To tell the truth,” returned Sancho, the monstrous nose 
of that squire has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not 
stay near him.” 

“ It is,” said Don Quixote, such a one that were I not what 
I am it would terrify me too ; so, come, I will help thee up 
where thou wilt.” 

While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork 
tree he of the Mirrors took as much ground as he considered 
requisite, and, supposing Don Quixote to have done the same, 
without waiting for any sound of trumpet or other signal to 
direct them, he wheeled his horse, which was not more agile or 
better looking than Eocinante, and at his top speed, which was 
an easy trot, he proceeded to charge his enemy ; seeing him, 
however, engaged in putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and 
halted in mid career, for which his horse was very grateful, as 
he was already unable to go. Don Quixote, fancying that his 
foe was coming down upon him flying, drove his spurs vigor- 
ously into Eocinante’s lean flanks and made him scud along in 
such style that the history tells us that on this occasion only 
was he known to make something like running, for on all others 
it was a simple trot with him ; and with this unparalleled fury 
he bore down where he of the Mirrors stood digging his spurs 
into his horse up to the buttons,^ without being able to make 
him stir a finger’s length from the spot where he had come to 
a standstill in his course. At this lucky moment and crisis, 

^ The old form of spur was a spike with a knob or button near the 
^int to keep it from penetrating too far. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


95 


Don Quixote came upon his adversary, in trouble with his 
horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which he either could 
not manage, or had no time to lay in rest. Don Quixote, how- 
ever, paid no attention to these difficulties, and in perfect safety 
to himself and without any risk encountered him of the Mirrors 
, with such force that he brought him to the ground in spite of 
himself over the haunches of his horse, and with so heavy a fall 
that he lay to all appearance dead, not stirring hand or foot. 
The instant Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork 
tree, and made all haste to where his master was, who, dis- 
mounting from Eocinante, went and stood over him of the 
Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if he was dead, and to 
give him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw — who can 
say what he saw, without filling all who hear it with astonish- 
ment, wonder, and awe ? He saw, the history says, the very 
countenance, the very face, the very look, the very physiognomy, 
the very effigy, the very image of the bachelor Samson Car- 
rasco ! As soon as he saw it he called out in a loud voice. 
Make haste here, Sancho, and behold what thou art to see 
but not to believe ^ quick, my son, and learn what magic can 
do, and wizards and enchanters are capable of.” 

Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the 
bachelor Carrasco, he fell to crossing himself a thousand times, 
and blessing himself as many more. All this time the pros- 
trate knight showed no signs of life, and Sancho said to Don 
Quixote, It is my opinion, senor, that in any case your wor- 
ship should take and thrust your sword into the mouth of this 
one here that looks like the bachelor Samson Carrasco ; perhaps 
in him you will kill one of your enemies, the enchanters.” 

“ Thy advice is not bad,” said Don Quixote, for of enemies 
the fewer the better ; ^ and he was drawing his sword to carry 
into effect Sancho’s counsel and suggestion, when the Squire of 
the Mirrors came up, now without the nose which had made 
him so hideous, and cried out in a loud voice, Mind what you 
are about, Senor Don Quixote ; that is your friend, the bachelor 
Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet, and I am his squire.” 

And the nose ? ” said Sancho, seeing him without the 
hideous feature he had before ; to which he replied, I have 
it here in my pocket,” and putting his hand into his right 
pocket, he pulled out a masquerade nose of varnished paste- 
board of the make already described ; and Sancho, examining 
* Prov. 94. 


96 


DON QUIXOTE, 


him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a voice of 
amazement, “ Holy Mary be good to me ! Is n’t it Tom Cecial, 
my neighbor and gossip ? ” 

Why, to be sure I am ! ” returned the now unnosed squire ; 
Tom Cecial I am, gossip and friend Sancho Panza ; and I ’ll 
tell you presently the means and tricks and falsehoods by 
which I have been brought here ; but in the meantime, beg and 
entreat of your master not to touch, maltreat, wound, or slay 
the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at his feet ; because, 
beyond all dispute, it is the rash and ill-advised bachelor Sam- 
son Carrasco, our fellow townsman.” 

At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don 
Quixote perceiving it, held the naked point of his sword over 
his face, and said to him, You are a dead man, knight, unless 
you confess that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your 
Casildea de Vandalia in beauty ; and in addition to this you 
must promise, if you should survive this encounter and fall, to 
go to the city of El Toboso and present yourself before her on 
my behalf, that she deal with you according to her good 
pleasure ; and if she leaves you free to do yours, you are in 
like manner to return and seek me out (for the trail of my 
mighty deeds will serve j^ou as a guide to lead you to where I 
may be), and tell me what may have passed between you and 
her — conditions which, in accordance with what we stipu- 
lated before our combat, do not transgress the just limits of 
knight-errantry.” 

I confess,” said the fallen knight, “ that the dirty tattered 
shoe of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the ill- 
combed though clean beard of Casildea ; and I promise to go 
and to return from her presence to yours, and to give you a 
full and particular account of all you demand of me.” 

You must also confess and believe,” added Don Quixote, 
that the knight you vanquished was not and could not be 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, but some one else in his likeness, 
just as I confess and believe that you, though you seem to be 
the bachelor Samson Carrasco, are not so, but some other re- 
sembling him, whom my enemies have here put before me in 
his shape, in order that I may restrain and moderate the vehe- 
mence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory of 
my victory.” 

“ I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, 
hold, and think it,” replied the crippled knight ; “ let me rise, 


CHAPTER XV. 


97 


I entreat yon ; if, indeed, the shock of my fall will allow me, 
for it has left me in a sorry plight enough.’’ 

Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his 
squire Tom Cecial ; from whom Sancho never took his eyes, 
and to whom he put questions, the replies to which furnished 
clear proof that he was really and truly the Tom Cecial he 
said ; but the impression made on Sancho’s mind by what his 
master said about the enchanters having changed the face of 
the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the bachelor Samson 
Carrasco, would not permit him to believe what he saw with 
his eyes. In fine, both master and man remained under the 
delusion ; and, down in the mouth, and out of luck, he of the 
Mirrors and his squire parted from Don Quixote and Sancho, 
he meaning to go look for some village where he could plaster 
and strap his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho resumed their 
journey to Saragossa, and on it the history leaves them in 
order that it may tell who the Knight of the Mirrors and his 
long-nosed squire were. 


CHAPTEE XV. 

WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT 
OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE WERE. 

Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vain-glorious in 
the highest degree at having won a victory over such a valiant 
knight as he fancied him of the Mirrors to be, and one from 
whose knightly word he expected to learn whether the en- 
chantment of his lady still continued ; inasmuch as the said 
vanquished knight was bound, under the penalty of ceasing to 
be one, to return and render him an account of what took place 
between him and her. But Don Quixote was of one mind, he 
of the Mirrors of another,’ for he just then had no thought of 
anything but finding some village where he could plaster 
himself, as has been said already. The history goes on to say, 
then, that when the bachelor Samson Carrasco recommended 
Don Quixote to resume his knight-errantry which he had laid 
aside, it was in consequence of having been previously in con- 
clave with the curate and the barber on ' the ' means to be 

' A reference to the proverb (185), *'The bay is of one mind, be who 
saddles him of another.” 

VoL. II. — 7 


98 


DON QUIXOTE. 


adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in peace and 
quiet without worrying himself with his ill-starred advent- 
ures ; at which consultation it was decided by the unanimous 
vote of all, and on the special advice of Carrasco, that Don 
Quixote should be allowed to go, as it seemed impossible to 
restrain him, and that Samson should sally forth to meet him 
as a knight-errant, and do battle with him, for there would 
be no difficulty about a cause, and vanquish him, that being 
looked upon as an easy matter ; and that it should be agreed 
and settled that the vanquished was to be at the mercy of the 
victor. Then Don Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor 
knight was to command him to return to his village and his 
house, and not quit it for two years, or until he received 
further orders from him ; all which it was clear Don Qui- 
xote would unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or 
fail . to observe the laws of chivalry ; and during the period 
of his seclusion he might perhaps forget his folly, or 
there might be an opportunity of discovering some ready 
remedy for his madness. Carrasco undertook the task, and 
Tom Cecial, a gossip and neighbor of Sancho Panza’s, a lively, 
feather-headed fellow, offered himself as his squire. Carrasco 
armed himself in the fashion described, and Tom Cecial, that 
he might not be known by his gossip when they met, fitted on 
over his own natural nose the false masquerade one that has 
been mentioned ; and so they followed the same route Don 
Quixote took, and almost came up with him in time to be 
present at the adventure of the cart of Death ; and finally 
encountered them in the grove, where all that the sagacious 
reader has been reading about took place ; and had it not been 
for the extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote, and his con- 
viction that the bachelor was not the bachelor, senor bachelor 
would have been incapacitated forever from taking his degree 
of licentiate, all through not finding nests where he thought 
to find birds.' 

Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a 
sorry end their expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, 
“ Sure enough, Senor Samson Carrasco, we are served right ; 
it is easy enough to plan and set about an enterprise, but it is 
often a difficult matter to come well out of it. Don Quixote 
a madman, and we sane ; he goes off laughing, safe, and 
sound, and you are left sore and sorry ! I ’d like to know now 
’ Prov. 155. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


99 


which is the madder, he who is so because he can not help it, 
or he who is so of his own choice ? ” 

To which Samson replied, “ The difference between the two 
sorts of madmen is, that he who is so will he nill he, will be 
one always, while he who is so of his own accord can leave off 
being one whenever he likes.” 

In that case,” said Tom Cecial, I was a madman of my 
own accord when I volunteered to iDecome your squire, and, of 
my own accord, I ’ll leave off being one and go home.” 

“ That ’s your affair,” returned Samson, ‘‘ but to suppose that 
I am going home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing 
is absurd ; and it is not any wish that he may recover his 
senses that will make me hunt him out now, but a wish for 
revenge ; for the sore pain I am in with my ribs won’t let me 
entertain more charitable thoughts.” 

Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a 
town where it was their good luck to find a bone-setter, with 
whose help the unfortunate Samson was cured. Tom Cecial 
left him and went home, while he stayed behind meditating 
vengeance; and the history will return to him again at the 
proper time, so as not to omit making merry with Don Quixote 
now. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLE- 
MAN OF LA MANCHA. 

Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satis- 
faction, and self-complacency already described, fancying him- 
self the most valorous knight-errant of the age in the world 
because of his late victory. All the adventures that could 
befall him from that time forth he regarded as already done 
and brought to a happy issue ; he made light of enchantments 
and enchanters ; he thought no more of the countless drubbings 
that had been administered to him in the course of his knight- 
errantry, nor of the volley of stones that had levelled half his 
teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the galley slaves, nor of the 
audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that fell 
upon him ; in short, he said to himself that could he discover 
any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, 


100 


DON QUIXOTE. 


he would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate 
knight-errrnt of yore ever reached or could reach. 

He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when 
Sancho said to him, Is n’t it odd, senor, that I have still be- 
fore my eyes that monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom 
Cecial ? ” 

And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
that the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, 
and his squire Tom Cecial thy gossip ? ” 

I don’t know what to say to that,” replied Sancho ; “ all I 
know is that the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife 
and children, nobody else but himself could have given me ; 
and the face, once the nose was off, was the very face of Tom 
Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in my town and next 
door to my own house ; and the sound of the voice was just 
the same.” 

‘‘ Let us reason the matter, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. 
Come now, by what process of thinking can it be supposed 
that the bachelor Samson Carrasco would come as a knight- 
errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight with me ? 
Have I ever been by any chance his enemy ? Have I ever 
given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his 
rival, or does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame 
I have acquired in them ? ” 

Well, but what are we to say, senor,” returned Sancho, 
“ about that knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor 
Carrasco, and his squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial ? And 
if that be enchantment, as your worship says, was there no 
other pair in the world for them to take the likeness of ? ” 

It is all,” said Don Quixote, a scheme and plot of the 
malignant magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that 
I was to be victorious in the conflict, arranged that the 
vanquished knight should display the countenance of my friend 
the bachelor, in order that the friendship I bear him should 
interpose to stay the edge of my sword and might of my arm, 
and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who sought 
to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own. 
And to prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience 
which can not lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to 
change one countenance into another, turning fair into foul, 
and foul into fair ; for it is not two days since thou sawest 
with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless 


CHAPTER XVL 


101 


Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, while I saw 
her in the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country wench, 
with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth ; and 
when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so wicked a 
transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson 
Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory 
out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, be- 
cause, after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have 
been victorious over my enemy.’’ 

God knows what ’s the truth of it all,” said Sancho ; and 
knowing as he did that the transformation of Dulcinea had 
been a device and imposition of his own, his master’s illusions 
were not satisfactory to him ; but he did not like to reply lest 
he should say something that might disclose his trickery. 

As they were engaged in this conversation they were over- 
taken by a man who was following the same road behind them, 
mounted on a very handsome flea-bitten mare, and dressed in 
a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny velvet facings, and a 
montera of the same velvet. ^ The trappings of the mare were 
of the field and jineta fashion,^ and of mulberry color and green. 
He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and 
gold baldric ; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric ; 
the spurs were not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly 
polished that, matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they 
looked better than if they had been of pure gold. 

When the traveller came up with them he saluted them cour- 
teously, and spurring his mare was passing them without stop- 
ping, but Don Quixote called out to him, Gallant sir, if so be 
your worship is going our road, and has no occasion for speed, 
it would be a pleasure to me if we were to join company.” 

In truth,” replied he on the mare, I would not pass you 
so hastily but for fear that horse might turn restive in the com- 
pany of my mare.” 

“ You may safely hold in your mare, senor,” said Sancho in 
reply to this, for our horse is the most virtuous and well- 
behaved horse in the world ; he never does anything wrong on 
such occasions, and the only time he misbehaved, my master 
and I suffered for it sevenfold ; I say again your worship may 

* Galan^ a loose overcoat with a hood, worn when hunting, hawking, or 
travelling ; montera,, a cap with falling flaps, a common headgear in Central 
Spain. 

* Jineta,, an easy saddle with short stirrups, already referred to, p. 68. 


102 


DON QUIXOTE. 


pull up if you like ; for if she was offered to him between two 
plates the horse would not hanker after her.” 

The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of 
Don Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which Sancho 
carried like a valise in front of Dapple’s pack-saddle ; and if 
the man in green examined Don Quixote closely, still more 
closely did Don Quixote examine the man in green, who struck 
him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was 
about fifty years of age, with but few gray hairs, an aquiline 
cast of features, and an expression between grave and gay; 
and his dress and accoutrements showed him to be a man of 
good condition. What he in green thought of Don Quixote of 
La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had 
never yet seen ; he marvelled at the length of his hair,* his 
lofty stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, 
his armor, his bearing and his gravity — a figure and picture 
such as had not been seen in those regions for many a long 
day. 

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the 
traveller was regarding him, and read his curiosity in his aston- 
ishment ; and courteous as he was and ready to please every- 
body, before the other could ask him any question he anticipated 
him by saying, ^‘The appearance I present to your worship 
being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be 
surprised if it filled you with wonder ; but you will cease to 
wonder when I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights 
who, as people say, go seeking adventures. I have left my 
home, I have mortgaged my estate, I have given up my com- 
forts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to bear 
me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to 
life again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, 
srumbling here, falling there, now coming down headlong, now 
raising myself un again, I have carried out a great portion of 
my design, succoring widow's, protecting maidens, and giving 
aid to wives, orpnans, and minors, the proper and natural duty 
of knights-errants ; and, therefore, because of my many valiant 
and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy 
to make my way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the 
nations of the earth. Thirty thousand volumes of my history 

* All editions previous to Hartzenbusch’s read cahallo — " horse ” — 
instead of cahello., but we are told, and the whole context shows, that it 
was Don Quixote’s 'personal appearance that astonished Don Diego ; it is 
true that Rocinante is described as " long ” in chapter ix., vol. i., p. 56. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


103 


have been printed, and it is on the high-road to be printed 
thirty thousand thousands of times, if Heaven does not put 
a stop to it.^ In short to sum up all in a few words, or in a 
single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
otherwise called ^ The Knight of the Rueful Countenance ; ’ 
for though self-praise is degrading,^ I must perforce sound my 
own sometimes, that is to say, when there is no one at hand to 
do it for me. So that, gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this 
lance, nor this shield, nor this squire, nor all these arms put 
together, nor the sallowness of my countenance, nor my gaunt 
leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now that you know who 
I am and what profession I follow.’’ 

With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from 
the time he took to answer, the man in green seemed to be at 
a loss for a reply ; after a long pause, however, he said to him, 
“ You were right when you saw curiosity in my amazement, 
sir knight; but you have not succeeded in removing the 
astonishment I feel at seeing you ; for although you say, senor, 
that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done 
so ; on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed 
and astonished than before. What ! is it possible that there are 
knights-errant in the world in these days, and histories of real 
chivalry printed ? I can not realize the fact that there can be any 
one on earth now-a-days who aids widows, or protects maidens, or 
defends wives, or succors orphans ; nor should I believe it had 
I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be 
Heaven ! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine 
chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the count- 
less stories of fictitious knights-errant with which the world 
is filled, so much to the injury of morality and the prejudice 
and discredit of good histories, will have been driven into 
oblivion.” 

There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don 
Quixote, as to whether the histories of the knights-errant are 
fiction or not.” 

Why, is there any one who doubts that those histories are 
false ? ” said the man in green. 

I doubt tt,” said Don Quixote, “ but never mind that just 

* In chapter iii., the reader may remember, the number is put at " more 
than twelve thousand.” Perhaps, between writing that chapter and this, 
Cervantes may have heard of other editions besides those he mentions 
there ; but even counting all editions his estimate is excessive. 

*Prov. 6. 


104 


DON QUIXOTE. 


now ; if our journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall 
show your worship that you do wrong in going with the stream 
of those who regard it as a matter of certainty that they are 
not true/^ 

From this last observation of Don Quixote’s, the traveller 
began to have a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and 
was waiting him to confirm it by something further ; but 
before they could turn to any new subject Don Quixote begged 
him to tell him who he was, since he himself had rendered 
account of his station and life. To this, he in the green gaban 
replied, I, Sir Knight of the Eueful Countenance, am a gen- 
tleman by birth, native of the village where, please God, we 
are going to dine to-day ; I am more than fairly well off, and 
my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my 
wife, children, and friends ; my pursuits are hunting and fish- 
ing, but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a 
tame partridge ^ or a bold ferret or two ; I have six dozen or so 
of books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, some, of them 
history, others devotional ; those of chivalry have not as yet 
crossed the threshold of my door ; I am more given to turning 
over the profane than the devotional, so long as they are 
books of honest entertainment that charm by their style and 
attract and interest by the invention they display, though of 
these there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine with my 
neighbors and friends, and often invite them ; my entertain- 
ments are neat and well served without stint of anything. 
I have no taste for tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my 
presence ; I pry not into my neighbors’ lives, nor have I lynx- 
eyes for what others do. I hear Mass every day ; I share my 
substance with the poor, making no display of good works, 
lest I let hypocrisy and vain-glory, those enemies that subtly 
take possession of the most watchful heart, find an entrance 
into mine. I strive to make peace between those v/hom I 
know to be at variance ; I am the devoted servant of Our 
Lady, and my trust is ever in the infinite mercy of God our 
Lord.” 

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of 
the gentleman’s life and occupations ; and thinking it a good and 

* Clemencin seems to think that it should he, not perdigon — “ par- 
tridge”— but — "pointer ; ” but Cervantes would never have 

applied the word manso — " tame ” - — to a dog. Clemencin apparently was 
not aware that tame partridges are extensively used by Andalusian sports- 
men as decoys. 


CHAPTER XV L 


105 


a holy life, and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he 
threw himself off Dapple, and running in haste seized his right 
stirrup and kissed his foot again and again with a devout heart 
and almost with tears. 

Seeing this the gentleman asked him, What are you about, 
brother ? What are these kisses for ? ” 

Let me kiss,’’ said Sancho, for I think your worship is 
the first saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life.” 

“ I am no saint,” replied the gentleman, but a great sinner ; 
but you are, brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your 
simplicity shows.” 

Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having ex- 
tracted a laugh from his master’s profound melancholy, and 
excited fresh amazement in Don Diego. Don Quixote then 
asked him how many children he had, and observed that one 
of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were with- 
out the true knowledge of God, placed the summum honwm was 
in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having many 
friends, and many and good children.^ 

I, Senor Don Quixote,” answered the gentleman, “ have one 
son, without whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier 
than I am, not because he is a bad son, but because he is not so 
good as I could wish. He is eighteen years of age ; he has been 
for six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek, and when I 
wished him to turn to the study of other sciences I found him 
so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a science) 
that there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I 
wished him to study, or to theology, the queen of them all. 
I would like him to be an honor to his family, as we live in 
days when our kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous 
and worthy ; for learning without virtue is a pearl on a dung- 
hill. He spends the whole day in settling whether Homer ex- 
pressed himself correctly or not in such and such a line of the 
Hiad, whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such 
an epigram, whether such and such lines of Virgil are to 
be understood in this way or in that ; in shoit, all his talk is of 
the works of these poets, and those of Horace, Persius, Juvenal, 
and Tibullus ; for of the moderns in our language he makes no 
great account ; but with all his seeming indifference to Spanish 

* This is an instance of the heedless way in which Cervantes so often 
wrote. He meant, of course, that having many and good children was one 
of those things (such as, for example, the gifts of fortune, etc.) wherein 
the philosophers placed the summum honum. 


106 


DON QUIXOTE. 


poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss 
on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which 
I suspect are for some poetical tournament.’’ 

To all this Don Quixote said in reply, Children, senor, are 
portions of their parents’ bowels, and therefore, be they good 
or bad, are to be loved as we love the souls that give us life ; 
it is for the parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of 
virtue, propriety, and worthy Christian conduct, so that when 
grown up they may be the staff of their parents’ old age, and 
the glory of their posterity ; and to force them to study this 
or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm 
to persuade them ; and when there is no need to study for the 
sake of pane lacrando, and it is the student’s good fortune 
that Heaven has given him parents who provide him with it, it 
would be my advice to them to let him pursue whatever science 
they may see him most inclined to ; and though that of poetry 
is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that bring 
discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I take 
it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, 
bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, 
who are all the rest of the sciences ; and she must avail herself 
of the help of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But 
this maiden will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through 
the streets, nor exposed either at the corners of the market- 
places, or in the closets of palaces. She is the product of an 
Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to practise it, will 
turn her into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that pos- 
sesses her must keep her within bounds, not permitting her to 
break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She must on 
no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in heroic 
poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies. 
She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant 
vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden 
treasures. And do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term 
vulgar here merely to plebeians and the lower orders ; for every 
one who is ignorant, be he lord or prince, may and should be 
included among the vulgar. He, then, who shall embrace and 
cultivate poetry under the conditions I have named, shall 
become famous, and his name honored throughout all the 

’ Justas literarias — literary or poetical jousts or tournaments, in which 
the compositions of the competitors were recited in public, and prizes 
awarded by appointed judges, were still frequent in the time of Cervantes 


CHAPTER XXL 


107 


civilized nations of the earth. And with regard to what you 
say, senor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish 
poetry, I am inclined to think that he is not quite right there, 
and for this reason : the great poet Homer did not write in 
Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, 
because he was a Latin; in short, all the ancient poets wrote 
in the language they imbibed with their mother’s milk, and 
never went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime 
conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in justice 
extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be 
undervalued because he writes in his own language, nor the 
Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his. But your 
son, senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry, 
but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, 
without any knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn 
and give life and vigor to their natural inspiration ; and yet 
even in this he may be wrong ; for, according to a true belief, 
a poet is born one ; that is to say, the poet by nature comes 
forth a poet from his mother’s womb ; and following the bent 
that Heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid of study 
or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who 
said, ^Est Deus in nobis, etc.^ At the same time, I say that 
the poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far 
better poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying 
upon his knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does 
not surpass nature, but only brings it to perfection ; and thus, 
nature combined with art, and art with nature, will produce a 
perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say 
then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for 
being so studious as he seems to be, and having already suc- 
cessfully surmounted the first step of the sciences, which is 
that of the languages, with their help he will by his own ex- 
ertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well 
becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honors, and 
distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or 
the gown the learned counsellor. If your son write satires 
reflecting on the honor of others, chide and correct him, and 
tear them up; but if he compose discourses in which he 
rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace, and with ele- 
gance like his, commend him ; for it is legitimate for a poet to 
write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the 

. * i.e. Ovid. Fasti, Lib. VI. and De Arte Amandi, Lib. III. 


108 


DON QUIXOTE. 


other vices too, provided he does not single out individuals ; 
there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying some- 
thing spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the 
coast of Pontus.^ If the poet be pure in his morals, he will 
be pure in his verses too ; the pen is the tongue of the mind, 
and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things 
that it wrif es down. And when kings and princes observe this 
marvellous science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful 
subjects, they honor, value, exalt them, and even crown them 
with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt strikes not,^ 
as if to show that they whose brows are honored and adorned 
with such a crown are not to be assailed by any one.” 

He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don 
Quixote’s argument, so much so that he began to abandon the 
notion he had taken up about his being crazy. But in the 
middle of the discourse, it being not very much to his taste, 
Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a little milk 
from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by ; 
and just as the gentleman, highly pleased with Don Quixote’s 
sound sense and intelligence, was about to renew the conversa- 
tion, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered 
with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling ; 
and persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called 
aloud to Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, 
hearing himself called, quitted the shepherds, and, prodding 
Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom there fell a 
terrific and desperate adventure. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT 
WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE 
REACHED OR COULD REACH ; TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY 
ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS. 

When the author of this great history comes to relate what 
is set down in this chapter he says he would have preferred to 
pass it over in silence, fearing it would not be believed, because 
here Don Quixote’s madness reaches the confines of the greatest 
' Like Ovid, banished to Tomos in Pontus. ®i.e. the laurel. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


109 


that can be conceived, and even goes a couple of bowshots 
beyond the greatest.^ But after all, though still under the 
same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding 
to the story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely 
disregarding the charges of falsehood that might be brought 
against him ; and he was right, for the truth may run fine but 
will not break, 2 and always rises above falsehood as oil above 
water j ® and so, going on with his story, he says that when Don 
Quixote called out to Sancho to bring him his helmet, Sancho 
was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him, and 
flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know 
what to do with them or what to carry them in ; so, not to lose 
them, for he had already paid for them, he thought it best to 
throw them into his master’s helmet, and acting on this bright 
idea he went to see what his master wanted with him. He, as 
he approached, exclaimed to him, “ Give me that helmet, my 
friend, for either I know little of adventures, or what I observe 
yonder is one that will, and does, call upon me to arm myself.” 
He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, 
but could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them 
with two or three small flags, which led him to conclude it 
must be carrying treasure of the King’s, and he said so to Don 
Quixote. He, however, would not believe him, being always 
persuaded and convinced that all that happened to him must 
be adventures and still more adventures ; so he replied to the 
gentleman, He who is prepared has his battle half fought ; ^ 
- nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by experi- 
ence that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know 
not when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes 
they will attack me ; ” and turning to Sancho he called for his 
helmet ; and Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, 
had to give it just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and with- 
out perceiving what was in it thrust it down in hot haste upon 
his head ; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed the whey 
began to run all over his face and beard, whereat he was so 

' The opening sentences have been transferred to this place from chap- 
ter X. by Hartzenbusch. It would be absurd to call Don Quixote’s sim- 
plicity in the matter of Sancho’s mystification about the village girls, mad 
doings (luocras) that go beyond the maddest that can be conceived ; while 
the lion adventure is all through treated as his very maddest freak; one 
compared with which, as Sancho says, all the rest were ‘ cakes and fancy 
bread.’ 

® Prov. 240. May be drawn out fine like wire. 

® Prov. 241. Prov. 14. 


110 


DON QUIXOTE. 


startled that he cried out to Sancho, Sancho, what ’s this ? I 
think my head is softening, or my brains are melting, or I am 
sweating from head to foot ! If I am sweating it is not indeed 
from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure 
which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me some- 
thing to wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse 
sweat is blinding me.’’ 

Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and ’ gave 
thanks to God at the same time that his master had not 
found out what was the matter. Don Quixote then wiped 
himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was that made 
his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his 
helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he 
exclaimed, By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but 
it is curds thou hast put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill- 
mannered squire ! ” 

To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, 
Sancho replied, If they are curds let me have them, your 
worship, and I ’ll eat them ; but let the devil eat them, for it 
must have been he who put them there. I dare to dirty your 
worship’s helmet ! You have guessed the offender finely ! 
Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have 
enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of 
your worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in 
order to provoke your patience to anger, and make you baste 
iny ribs as you are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they 
have missed their aim, for I trust to my master’s good sense to 
see that I have got no curds or milk, or anything of the sort ; 
and that if I had it is in my stomach I would put it and not 
in the helmet.” 

^^May be so,” said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman 
was observing, and with astonishment, more especially when, 
after having wiped himself clean, his head, face, beard, and 
helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling himself firmly in 
his stirrups, easing his sword in the scabbard, and grasping 
his lance, he cried, Now, come who will, here am I, ready to 
try conclusions with Satan himself in person ! ” 

By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended 
by any one except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in 
front. Don Quixote planted himself before it and said. 
Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is this? 
What have you got in it ? What flags are those ? ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Ill 


To this the carter replied, The cart is mine ; what is in it 
is a pair of fine caged lions, which the governor of Oran is 
sending to court as a present to his Majesty ; and the flags 
are our lord the King’s, to show that what is here is his 
property.” ^ 

And are the lions large ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, 
“ that larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to 
Spain ; I am the keeper, and I have brought over others, but 
never any like these. They are male and female ; the male is 
in that first cage and the female in the one behind, and they 
are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let 
your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place 
where we are to feed them.” 

Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, Lion- 
whelps to me ! to me whelps of lions, and at such a time ! 
Then, by God ! those gentlemen who send them here shall see 
if I am a man to be frightened by lions. Get down, my good 
fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and turn me 
out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let them 
know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the 
teeth of the enchanters who send them to me.” 

So, so,” said the gentleman to himself at this ; our 
worthy knight has shown of what sort he is ; the curds, no 
doubt, have softened his skull and brought his brains to a 
head.” 

At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, Senor, for 
God’s sake do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, 
from tackling these lions ; for if he does they ’ll tear us all to 
pieces here.” 

“ Is your master then so mad,” asked the gentleman, 
that you believe and are afraid he will engage such fierce 
animals ? ” 

He is not mad,” said Sancho, but he is venturesome.” 

I will prevent it,” said the gentleman ; and going over to 
Don Quixote, who was insisting upon the keeper’s opening the 
cages, he said to him, Sir knight, knights-errant should 
attempt adventures which encourage the hope of a successful 
issue, not those which entirely withhold it ; for valor that 

^ Don Quixote, going to Saragossa, could not have me^the cart with 
lions coming from Cartagena, where they would have been landed from 
Oran. 


112 


DON QUIXOTE. 


trenches upon temerity savors rather of madness than of cour- 
age ; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do 
they dream of such a thing ; they are going as presents to his 
Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or delay their 
journey.’’ 

Gentle sir,” replied Don Quixote, you go and mind your 
tame partridge and your bold ferret, and leave every one to 
manage his own business ; this is mine, and I know whether 
these gentlemen the lions come to me or not ; ” and then turn- 
ing to the keeper he exclaimed, “ By all that ’s good, sir scoun- 
drel, if you don’t open the cages this very instant, I ’ll pin you 
to the cart with this lance.” 

The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in 
armor, said to him, Please your worship, for charity’s sake, 
senor, let me unyoke the mules and place myself in safety 
along with them before the lions are turned out ; for if they 
kill them on me I am ruined for life, for all I possess is this 
cart and mules.” 

0 man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, get down 
and unyoke ; you will soon see that you are exerting yourself 
for nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the 
trouble.” 

The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, 
and the keeper called out at the top of his voice, I call all 
here to witness that against my will and under compulsion I 
open the cages and let the lions loose, and that I warn this 
gentleman that he will be accountable for all the harm and 
mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and 
dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before 
I open, for I know they will do me no harm.” 

Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote 
not to do such a mad thing, as it was tempting God to en- 
gage in such a piece of folly. To this, Don Quixote replied 
that he knew what he was about. The gentleman in return 
entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion. 

‘‘ Well, senor,” answered Don Quixote, if you do not like 
to be a spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, 
spur your flea-bitten mare and place yourself in safety.” 

Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to 
give up an enterprise compared with which the one of the 
windmills, and the awful one of the fulling mills, and, in fact, 
all the feats he had attempted in the whole course of his lifcj 


CHAPTER XVIL 


113 


were cakes and fancy bread. “ Look ye, sefior/’ said SanchOj 

there ’s no enchantment here, nor anything of the sort, for be- 
tween the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of 
a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw 
could belong to must be bigger than a mountain.’’ 

Fear, at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, will make him 
look bigger to thee than half the world. Ketire, Sancho, and 
leave me ; and if I die here thou knowest our old compact ; 
thou wilt repair to Dulcinea — I say no more.” To these he 
added some further words that banished all hope of his giving 
up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have 
offered resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, 
and did not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, 
for such Don Quixote had shown himself to be in every re- 
spect ; and the latter, renewing his commands to the keeper 
and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentleman to 
spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, 
all striving to get away from the cart as far as they could 
before the lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his 
master’s death, for this time he firmly believed it was in store 
for him from the claws of the lions ; and he cursed his fate 
and called it an unlucky hour when he thought of taking ser- 
vice with him again ; but with all his tears and lamentations 
he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a good space 
between himself and the cart. The keeper, seeing that the 
fugitives were now some distance off, once more entreated and 
warned Don Quixote as he had entreated and warned him 
before ; but he replied that he heard him, and that he need not 
trouble himself with any further warnings or entreaties, as 
they would be fruitless, and bade him make haste. 

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening 
the first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would 
not be well to do battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and 
finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that Eocinante might 
take fright at the sight of the lions ; he therefore sprang off 
his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his arm, 
and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous in- 
trepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the 
cart, commending himself with all his heart, first to God, and 
then to his lady Dulcinea. 

It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the 
author of this veracious history breaks out into exclamations. 

Vox.. ir.-8 


114 


DON QUIXOTE. 


0 doughty Don Quixote ! high mettled past extolling ! Mir- 
ror, wherein all the heroes of the world may see themselves ! 
Second and modern Don Manuel de Leon, once the glory and 
honor of Spanish knighthood ! ^ In what words shall I de- 
scribe this dread exploit, by what language shall I make it 
credible to ages to come, what eulogies are there unmeet for 
thee, though they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles ! On 
foot, alone, undaunted, high-souled, with but a simple sword, 
and that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand,^ a shield, 
but no bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and 
awaiting the two fiercest lions that Afric’s forests ever bred ! 
Thy own deeds be thy praise, O valiant Manchegan, and here 
I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to 
glorify them ! ” 

Here the author’s outburst came to an end, and he proceeded 
to take up the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing 
that Don Quixote had taken up his position, and that it was 
impossible for him to avoid letting out the male without incur- 
ring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight, fiung open the 
doors of the first cage, containing, as has been said, the lion, 

* Referring to Don Manuel Ponce de Leon, one of the most brilliant of 
the galaxy of gallant knights round Ferdinand and Isabella at the siege 
of Granada, and hero, according to Spanish tradition, of a story told by 
Schiller in Der Handschuh., by Leigh Hunt in the Glove and the Lions., 
but best of all by Robert Browning in The Glove. Although, with these, the 
hero’s name is De Lorge and the scene the Court of Francis I. of France, 
the story is originally a Spanish one. It was transferred to France by Bran- 
tdme in Discours X. of his Dames Illustres. He took it from No. 39 of 
Part III. of Bandello’s novels, and Bandello had it from a Valencian or 
Catalan source. It appears in different forms in old Spanish literature. 
It is mentioned in the Nohiliario of Alonso Lopez de Haro, who, how- 
ever, says nothing about throwing the glove in the lady’s face. It is also 
mentioned by Urrea in his translation of Ariosto, 1549, and by Garci 
Sanchez de Badajoz; and it is the subject of a ballad, probably of the 
fifteenth century, in Timoneda’s Rosa de Romances., loZA Viardot, in a 
note on this passage in his translation, says that the surname of " de 
Leon” was conferred by Isabella in commemoration of the feat. As a 
member of the Spanish Academy he ought to have known that in that 
case the title would have been " del Leon ; ” and, in the next place, that 
the noble family of the Ponces had borne the addition to their name since 
the end of the twelfth century, when Pedro Ponce de Minerva married 
Aldonza, natural daughter of Alfonso IX. of Leon. Unfortunately, the 
reverse of Viardot’s theory is far the more probable one ; that the story 
was invented to account for the name by some ballad-maker ignorant of 
the family history of the Ponces. 

2 The Perrillo — i.e. the little dog — was the trade-mark of Julian del 
Rei, a famous armorer and swordsmith of Toledo and Saragossa. 



THK KEEPKR FLUNG OI'EN THE DOOR OF THE FIRST CAGE. 






1 






Vi 


« 



II 





CHAPTER XVII, 


115 


which was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous 
mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in the cage in 
which he lay, and protude his claws, and stretch himself thor- 
oughly ; he next opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, 
and with near two palmsMength of tongue that he had thrust 
forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his face ; 
having done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked 
all round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and de- 
meanor to strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote 
merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from 
the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped 
to hew him in pieces. 

So far did his unparalleled madness go ; but the noble lion, 
more courteous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly 
bravado, after having looked all round, as has been said, turned 
about and presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very 
coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, 
Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and pro- 
voke him to make him come out. 

That I won’t,” said the keeper ; for if I anger him, the 
first he ’ll tear to pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, 
with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said 
on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a 
second time. The lion has the door open ; he is free to come 
out or not to come out ; but as he has not come out so far, he 
will not come out to-day. The greatness of your worship’s 
courage has been fully manifested already ; no brave champion, 
so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy 
and wait for him on the field ; if his adversary does not come, 
on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off 
the crown of victory.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote ; close the door, my 
friend, and let me have, in the best form thou canst, what thou 
hast seen me do, by way of certificate ; to wit, that thou didst 
open for the lion, that I waited for him, that he did not come 
out, that I still waited for him, and that still he did not come 
out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do more ; en- 
chantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, and 
true chivalry ! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make 
signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn 
this exploit from my lips.” 

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of 


116 


DON QUIXOTE. 


his lance the cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge 
of curds, proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to 
hy, looking back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman 
bringing up the rear. Sancho, however, happening to observe 
the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, ‘‘ May I die, if my 
master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to 
us.’^ 

They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote 
who was making signals, and shaking off their fears to some 
extent, they approached slowly until they were near enough to 
hear distinctly Don Quixote’s voice calling to them. They re- 
turned at length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote 
said to the carter, Put your mules to once more, brother, and 
continue your journey ; and do thou, Sancho, give him two 
gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the 
delay they have incurred through me.” 

That will I give with all my heart,” said Sancho ; but 
what has become of the lions ? Are they dead or alive ? ” 

The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the 
end of the contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability 
the valor of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion 
quailed, and would not and dared not come out of the cage, 
although he had held the door open ever so long ; and showing 
how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight 
that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force 
him out, which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, 
and altogether against his will, had allowed the door to be 
closed. 

What dost thou think of this, Sancho ? ” said Don Quixote. 

Are there any enchantments that can prevail against true 
valor ? The enchanters may be able to rob me of good fortune, 
but of fortitude and courage they can not.” 

Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed 
Don Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and 
promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the King 
himself, as soon as he saw him at court. 

Then,” said Don Quixote, << if his Majesty should happen 
to ask who performed it, you must say The Knight of the 
Lions ; for it is my desire that into this the name I have 
hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful Countenance be from 
this time forward changed, altered, transformed, and turned ; 
and in this I follow the ancient usage of knights-errant, wly? 


CHAPTER XVII. 


117 


changed their names when they pleased, or when it suited 
their purpose.” ^ 

The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he 
of the green gaban went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de 
Miranda had not spoken a word, being entirely taken up with 
observing and noting all that Don Quixote did and said, and 
the opinion he formed was that he was a man of brains gone 
mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first 
part of his history had not yet reached him, for, had he read 
it, the amazement with which his words and deeds filled him 
would have vanished, as he would then have understood the 
nature of his madness ; but knowing nothing of it, he took him 
to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he 
said was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he 
did, absurd, rash, and foolish; and said he to himself, ^^What 
could be madder than putting on a helmet full of curds, and 
then persuading one’s self that enchanters are softening one’s 
skull ; or what could be greater rashness and folly than want- 
ing to fight lions tooth and nail ? ” 

Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this 
soliloquy by saying, No doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, 
you set me down in your mind as a fool and a madman, and it 
would be no wonder if you did, for my deeds do not argue any- 
thing else. But for all that, I would have you take notice 
that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have seemed 
to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his 
lance to bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his 
sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza ; a knight shows to 
advantage arrayed in glittering armor, pacing the lists before 
the ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights 
show to advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may say 
so, honor the courts of their princes by warlike exercises, or 
what resemble them ; but to greater advantage than all these 
does a knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes, 
cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous ad- 
ventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful 
issue, all to win a glorious and lasting renown. To greater 
advantage, I maintain, does the knight-errant show bringing 
aid to some widow in some lonely waste, than the court knight 
dallying with some city damsel. All knights have their own 

’ e.g. Amadis, Esplandian, Belianis, the Caballero del Febo, and ottiers 
^The Knight of the Lions ” was one of the titles adopted by Amadis. 


118 


DON QUIXOTE. 


special parts to play ; let the courtier devote himself to the 
ladies, let him add lustre to his sovereign’s court by his liv- 
eries, let him entertain poor gentlemen with the sumptuous fare 
of his table, let him arrange j oustings, marshal tournaments, 
and prove himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and above 
all a good Christian, and so doing he will fulfil the duties that 
are especially his ; but let the knight-errant explore the corners 
of the earth and penetrate the most intricate labyrinths, at 
each step let him attempt impossibilities, on desolate heaths 
let him endure the burning rays of the midsummer sun, and the 
bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts ; let no lions 
daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him quail ; 
for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in truth 
his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a 
member of knight-errantry, can not avoid attempting all that to 
me seems to come within the sphere of my duties ; thus it was 
my bounden duty to attack those lions that I just now at- 
tacked, although I knew it to be the height of rashness ; for I 
know well what valor is, that it is a virtue that occupies a 
place between two vicious extremes, cowardice and temerity ; 
but it will be a lesser evil for him who is valiant to rise till he 
reaches the point of rashness, than to sink until he reaches the 
point of cowardice ; for, as it is easier for the prodigal than for 
the miser to become generous, so it is easier for a rash man to 
prove truly valiant than for a coward to rise to true valor ; and 
believe me, Senor Don Diego, in attempting adventures it is 
better to lose by a card too many than by a card too few ; ^ 
for to hear it said, ^ such a kuight is rash and daring,’ sounds 
better than ^ such a knight is timid and cowardly.’ ” 

I protest, Senor Don Quixote,” said Don Diego, every- 
thing you have said and done is proved correct by the test of 
reason itself ; and I believe, if the laws and ordinances of 
knight-errantry should be lost, they might be found in your 
worship’s breast as in their own proper depository and muni- 
ment-house ; but let us make haste, for it grows late, and 
reach my village and house, where you shall take rest after 
your late exertions ; for if they have not been of the body they 
have been of the spirit, and these sometimes tend to produce 
bodily fatigue.” 

I take the invitation as a great favor and honor, Senor 
Don Diego,” replied Don Quixote ; and pressing forward at a 

* Prov. 39. 


CHAPTER XVI I L 


119 


better pace than before, at about two in the afternoon they 
reached the village and house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote 
called him, The Knight of the Green Gaban/’ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE 

OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH 

OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON. 

Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda’s house built 
in village style, with his arms in rough stone over the street 
door ; * in the patio was the store-room, and at the entrance 
the cellar, with plenty of wine-jars standing round, which, 
coming from El Toboso, brought back to his memory his en- 
chanted and transformed Dulcinea ; and with a sigh, and not 
thinking of what he was saying, or in whose presence he was, 
he exclaimed — 

O ye sweet treasures, to my sorrow found! 

Once sweet and welcome when ’t was Heaven’s good-will.* 

0 ye Tobosan jars, how ye bring back to my memory the sweet 
object of my bitter regrets ! ” 

The student poet, Don Diego’s son, who had come out with 
his mother to receive him, heard this exclamation, and both 
mother and son were filled with amazement at the extraor- 
dinary figure he presented; he, however, dismounting from 
Rocinante, advanced with great politeness to ask permission 
to kiss the lady’s hand, while Don Diego said, “ Senora, pray 
receive with your wonted kindness Senor Don Quixote of La 
Mancha, whom you see before you, a knight-errant, and the 
bravest and wisest in the world.” 

The lady, whose name was Dona Cristina, received him 
with every sign of good-will and great courtesy, and Don 
Quixote placed himself at her service with an abundance of 
well-chosen and polished phrases. Almost the same civilities 

* Many houses in the old towns of Northern and Central Spain are so 
decorated to this day. 

* The beginning of Garcilaso’s tenth sonnet, imitated from Virgil, 
AEneid^ Lib. IV. : " Dulces exuviae, dum fata deusque sinebant.” 


120 


DON QUIXOTE. 


were exchanged between him and the student, who, listening 
to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible, clear-headed 
person. 

Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to 
Don Diego’s mansion, putting before us in his picture the 
whole contents of a rich gentleman-farmer’s house ; but the 
translator of the history thought it best to pass over these and 
other details of the same sort in silence, as they are not in 
harmony with the main purpose of the story, the strong point 
of which is truth rather than dull digressions.^ 

They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his 
armor, leaving him in his loose Walloon breeches and chamois- 
leather doublet, all stained with the rust of his armor; his 
collar was a falling one of scholastic cut, without starch or 
lace, his buskins buff-colored, and his shoes polished. He 
wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of sea-wolf’s 
skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an 
ailment of the kidneys ; ^ and over all he threw a long cloak 
of good gray cloth. But first of all, with five or six buckets 
of water (for as regards the number of buckets there is some 
dispute) he washed his head and face, and still the water re- 
mained whey-colored, thanks to Sancho’s greediness and pur- 
chase of those unlucky curds that turned his master so white. 
Thus arrayed, and with an easy, sprightly, and gallant air, Don 
Quixote passed out into another room, where the student was 
waiting to entertain him while the table was being laid ; for 
on the arrival of so distinguished a guest. Dona Cristina was 
anxious to show that she knew how and was able to give a be- 
coming reception to those who came to her house. 

While Don Quixote was taking off his armor, Don Lorenzo 
(for so Don Diego’s son was called) took the opportunity to say 
to his father, What are we to make of this gentleman you 
have brought home to us, sir ? For his name, his appearance, 
and your describing him as a knight-errant have completely 
puzzled my mother and me.” 

“ I don’t know what to say, my son,” replied Don Diego ; 
“ all I can tell thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the 

* A hit at the prolixity not only of the romances of chivalry, but of 
more modern works. 

* Not that sea-wolf skin was a specific, but because, like many suffer- 
ing from ailments in the region of the loins, he found a baldric passing 
over the shoulder easier than the ordinary sword-belt. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


121 


greatest madman in the world, and heard him make observa- 
tions so sensible that they efface and undo all he does ; do thou 
talk to him and feel the pulse of his wits, and as thou art 
shrewd, form the most reasonable conclusion thou canst as to 
his wisdom or folly; though, to tell the truth, I am more 
inclined to take him to be mad than sane.’’ 

With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote 
as has been said, and in the course of the conversation that 
passed between them Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, “ Your 
father, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, has told me of the rare 
abilities and subtle intellect you possess, and, above all, that 
you are a great poet.” 

“ A poet, it may be,” replied Don Lorenzo, “ but a great one, 
by no means. It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry 
and to reading good poets, but not so much so as to justify the 
title of ^ great ’ which my father gives me.” 

I do not dislike that modesty,” said Don Quixote ; “ for 
there is no poet who is not conceited and does not think he is 
the best poet in the world.” 

There is no rule without an exception,” said Don Lorenzo ; 
there may be some who are poets and yet do not think they 
are.” 

Very few,” said Don Quixote ; but tell me, what verses 
are those which you have now in hand, and which your 
father tells me keep you somewhat restless and absorbed ? If 
it be some gloss, I know something about glosses, and I should 
like to hear them ; and if they are for a poetical tournament, 
contrive to carry off the second prize ; for the first always goes 
by favor or personal standing, the second by simple justice ; 
and so the third comes to be the second, and the first, reckon- 
ing in this way, will be third, in the same way as licentiate 
degrees are conferred at the universities ; but, for all that, the 
title of first is a great distinction.” ^ 

So far,” said Don Lorenzo to himself, I should not take 
you to be a madman ; but let us go on.” So he said to him, 
“ Your worship has apparently attended the schools ; what 
sciences have you studied ? ” 

That of knight-errantry,” said Don Quixote, which is 
as good as that of poetry, and even a finger or two above it.” 

I do not know what science that is,” said Don Lorenzo, 
and until now I have never heard of it.” 

* Cervantes himself won a first prize at Saragossa in 1595. 


122 


DON QUIXOTE. 


It is a science, said Don Quixote, that comprehends in 
itself all or most of the sciences in the world, for he who pro- 
fesses it must be a jurist, and must know the rules of justice, 
distributive and equitable, so as to give to each one what be- 
longs to him and is due to him. He must be a theologian, so 
as to be able to give a clear and distinctive reason for the 
Christian faith he professes, wherever it may be asked of him. 
He must be a physician, and above all a herbalist, so as in 
wastes and solitudes to know the herbs that have the property 
of healing wounds, for a knight-errant must not go looking for 
some one to cure him at every step. He must be an astrono- 
mer, so as to know by the stars how many hours of the night 
have passed, and what clime and quarter of the world he is in. 
He must know mathematics, for at every turn some occasion 
for them will present itself to him ; and, putting it aside that 
he must be adorned with all the virtues, cardinal and theologi- 
cal, to come down to minor particulars, he must, I say, be able 
to swim as well as Nicholas or Nicolao the Fish could, as the 
story goes ; ^ he must know how to shoe a horse, and repair his 
saddle and bridle ; and, to return to higher matters, he must 
be faithful to God and to his lady ; he must be pure in 
thought, decorous in words, generous in works, valiant in 
deeds, patient in suffering, compassionate towards the needy, 
and, lastly, an upholder of the truth though its defence 
should cost him his life. Of all these qualities, great and 
small, is a true knight-errant made up ; judge then, Senor Don 
Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible science which the knight 
who studies and professes it has to learn, and whether it may 
not compare with the very loftiest that are taught in the 
schools.’^ 

If that be so,” replied Don Lorenzo, this science, I pro- 
test, surpasses all.” 

“ How, if that be so ? ” said Don Quixote. 

What I mean to say,” said Don Lorenzo, is, that I doubt 
whether there are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and 
adorned with such virtues.” 

“ Many a time,” replied Don Quixote, “ have I said what I 
now say once more, that the majority of the world are of opin- 
ion that there never were any knights-errant in it ; and as it is 
my opinion that, unless Heaven by some miracle brings home 

* Alluding to Pesce-Cola, or Pece Golan, the famous swimmer of Cata- 
nia, who lived towards the end of the fifteenth century. 


CHAPTER XVIII, 


123 


to them the truth that there were and are, all the pains one 
takes will be in vain (as experience has often proved to me), I 
will not now stop to disabuse you of the error you share with 
the multitude. All I shall do is to pray to Heaven to deliver 
you from it, and show you how beneficial and necessary 
knights-errant were in days of yore, and how useful they would 
be in these days were they but in vogue ; but now, for the sins 
of the people, sloth and indolence, gluttony and luxury are 
triumphant.’^ 

Our guest has broken out on our hands,” said Don Lorenzo 
to himself at this point ; but, for all that, he is a glorious 
madman, and I should be a dull blockhead to doubt it.” 

Here, being summoned to dinner, they brought their colloquy 
to a close. Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to 
make out as to the wits of their guest. To which he replied. 
All the doctors and clever scribes in the world will not make 
sense of the scrawl of his madness; he is a madman in 
streaks,^ full of lucid intervals.” 

They went in to dinner, and the repast was such as Don 
Diego said on the road he was in the habit of giving to his 
guests, neat, plentiful, and tasty ; but what pleased Don Qui- 
xote most was the marvellous silence that reigned throughout 
the house, for it was like a Carthusian monastery. 

When the cloth had been removed, grace said, and their 
hands washed, Don Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to 
repeat to him his verses for the poetical tournament, to which 
he replied, Not to be like those poets who, when they are 
asked to recite their verses, refuse, and when they are not asked 
for them vomit them up,^ I will repeat my gloss, for which I 
do not expect any prize, having composed it merely as an exer- 
cise of ingenuity.” 

“ A discerning friend of mine,” said Don Quixote, was of 
opinion that no one ought to waste labor in glossing verses ; 
and the reason he gave was that the gloss can never come up 
to the text, and that often or most frequently it wanders away 
from the meaning and purpose aimed at in the glossed lines ; 
and besides, that the laws of the gloss were too strict, as they 
did not allow interrogations, nor ^ said he,’ nor < I say,’ nor 
turning verbs into nouns, or altering the construction, not to 

* Entreverado^ i.e. like bacon that is mixed fat and lean. 

2 ‘‘•Nunquam inducant animum cantare rogati, 

Injussi nunquam desistant.” 


124 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Speak of other restrictions and limitations that fetter gloss- 
writers, as you no doubt know/^ ^ 

‘‘ Verily, Senor Don Quixote,” said Don Lorenzo, I wish I 
could catch your worship tripping at a stretch, but I can not, 
for you slip through my fingers like an eel.” 

I don’t understand what you say or mean by slipping,” 
said Don Quixote. 

I will explain myself another time,” said Don Lorenzo ; 
« for the present pray attend to the glossed verses and the 
gloss, which run thus : 

Could ^ was ’ become an ^ is ’ for me. 

Then would I ask no more than this ; 

Or could, for me, the time that is 
Become the time that is to be ! — 


Gloss. 

« Dame Fortune once upon a day 
To me was bountiful and kind ; 

But all things change ; she changed her mind, 

And what she gave she took away. 

0 Fortune, long I ’ve sued to thee ; 

The gifts thou gavest me restore, 

For, trust me, I would ask no more. 

Could ^ was ’ become an ^ is ’ for me. 

<‘No other prize I seek to gain. 

No triumph, glory, or success. 

Only the long-lost happiness, 

The memory whereof is pain. 

One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss 
The heart-consuming fire might stay ; 

And, so it come without delay. 

Then would I ask no more than this. 

* Glossed verses, versos glosados^ of the sort imitated here, were among 
the literary frivolities indulged in by the sixteenth and seventeenth cen- 
tury poets in Spain. Lope claims them as a Spanish invention, but Tick- 
nor traces them to the Proven9al poets. The Proven9al glosses, however, 
were not constructed on the same principle. In Saa de Miranda’s Ohras 
(1595), a gloss on some lines of Jorge Manrique’s is described as " ao 
custume daquelles tempos,” which may imply that they came into fashion 
at the beginning of the sixteenth century. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


125 


I ask what can not be, alas ! 

That time should ever be, and then 
Come back to us, and be again. 

No power on earth can bring to pass; 

Nor fleet of foot is he, I wis. 

And idly, therefore, do we pray 
That what for aye hath left us may 
Become for us the time that is. 

<< Perplexed, uncertain, to remain 

’Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life ; 

’T were better, sure, to end the strife, 

And dying, seek release from pain. 

And yet, though T were the best for me, 

Anon the thought aside I fling. 

And to the present fondly cling. 

And dread the time that is to be.’^ 

When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don 
Quixote stood up, and in a loud voice, almost a shout, ex- 
claimed as he grasped Don Lorenzo’s right hand in his, By 
the highest heavens, 0 noble youth, but you are the best poet 
on earth, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus 
or by Gaeta — as a certain poet, God forgive him, said — but 
by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by 
those that flourish now, Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca. Heaven 
grant that the judges who rob you of the first prize — that 
Phoebus may pierce them with his arrows, and the Muses never 
cross the thresholds of their doors. Bepeat me some of your 
long-measure verses, senor, if you will be so good, for I want 
thoroughly to feel the pulse of your rare genius.” 

Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing 
himself praised by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as 
a madman ? 0 power of flattery, how far-reaching art thou, 

and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasant jurisdiction ! 
Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he complied with Don Qui- 
xote’s request and entreaty, and repeated to him this sonnet 
on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe. 

Sonnet. 

The lovely maid, she pierces now the wall ; 
Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie ; 


126 


DOiV QUIXOTE. 


And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly, 

A chink to view so wondrous great and small. 

There silence speaketh, for no voice at all 
Can pass so strait a strait ; but love will ply 
Where to all other power ’t were vain to try ; 

For love will And a way whatever befall. 

Impatient of delay, with reckless pace 

The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she 
Sinks not in lover’s arms but death’s embrace. 

So runs the strange tale, how the lovers twain 
One sword, one sepulchre, one memory. 

Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again.^ 

Blessed be God,” said Don Quixote when he had heard 
Don Lorenzo’s sonnet, that among the hosts there are of irri- 
table poets I have found one consummate one,^ which, senor, 
the art of this sonnet proves to me that you are ! ” 

For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously enter- 
tained in Don Diego’s house, at the end of which time he asked 
his permission to depart, telling him he thanked him for the 
kindness and hospitality he had received in his house, but that, 
as it did not become knights-errant to give themselves up for 
long to idleness and luxury, he was anxious to fulfil the duties 
of his calling in seeking adventures, of which he was informed 
there was an abundance in that neighborhood, where he hoped 
to employ his time until the day came round for the jousts at 
Saragossa, for that was his proper destination ; and that, first 
of all, he meant to enter the cave of Montesinos, of which so 
many marvellous things were reported all through the country, 
and at the same time to investigate and explore the origin and 
true source of the seven lakes commonly called the lakes of 
Ruidera.® 

Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolution, and 
bade him furnish himself with all he wanted from their house 
and belongings, as they would most gladly be of service to him ; 

* This sonnet is a caricature, and by no means an overcharged one, of 
the sonnet style of the Culto school, which at this time had nearly attained 
its highest influence. Indeed, it might easily pass muster as a fair speci- 
men, not perhaps of Gongora, but of any of the minor cultoristas 

“Literally, "among the hosts of consumed poets.” Possibly Cervantes 
meant by the word, " lean,” " starving,” but it also has the meaning I 
have given, which, perhaps — genus irritdbile vatum” — is the more 
likely one. 

^ See notes to chapter xxii. 


CHAPTER XVI I L 


127 


which, indeed, his personal worth and his honorable profession 
made it incumbent upon them to be. 

The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don 
Quixote as it was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was 
very well satisfied with the abundance of Don Diego’s house, 
and objected to return to the starvation of the woods and wilds 
and the short-commons of his ill-stocked alforjas ; these, how- 
ever, he filled and packed with what he considered most need- 
ful. On taking leave, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, “ I 
know not whether I have told you already, but if I have I tell 
you once more, that if you wish to spare yourself fatigue and toil 
in reaching the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you 
have nothing to do but to turn aside out of the somewhat 
narrow path of poetry and take the still narrower one of knight- 
errantry, wide enough, however, to make you an emperor in the 
twinkling of an eye.” 

In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his 
madness, but still better in what he added when he said, God 
knows, I would gladly take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him 
how to spare the humble, and trample the proud under foot, 
virtues that are part and parcel of the profession I belong to ; 
but since his tender age does not allow of it, nor his praise- 
worthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content myself with 
impressing it upon your worship that you will become famous 
as a poet if you are guided by the opinion of others rather than 
by your own ; because no fathers or mothers ever think their own 
children ill-favored, and this sort of deception prevails still 
more strongly in the case of the children of the brain.” 

Both father and' son were amazed afresh at the strange 
medley Don Quixote talked, at one moment sense, at another 
nonsense, and at the pertinacity and persistence he displayed in 
going through thick and thin in quest of his unlucky advent- 
ures, which he made the end and aim of his desires. There 
was a renewal of offers of service and civilities, and then, with 
the gracious permission of the lady of the castle, they took 
their departure, Don Quixote on Eocinante, and Sancho on 
Dapple.^ 

^ Cervantes seems to have introduced the " discreet ” Don Diego de 
Miranda as a sort of contrast to Don Quixote. Possibly it was from these 
chapters that Theodore Agrippa d’Aubigne took the idea of his Sieur Enay 
and Baron Eoeneste. 


128 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMORED 

SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCI- 
DENTS. 

Don Quixote had gone but a short distance beyond Don 
Diego’s village, when he fell in with a couple of either priests 
or students, and a couple of peasants, mounted on four beasts 
of the ass kind. One of the students carried, wrapped up in 
a piece of green buckram by way of a portmanteau, what 
seemed to be a little linen and a couple of pair of ribbed 
stockings ; the other carried nothing but a pair of new fencing- 
foils with buttons. The peasants carried divers articles that 
showed they were on their way from some large town where 
they had bought them, and were taking them home to their 
village ; and both students and peasants were struck with the 
same amazement that everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for 
the first time, and were dying to know who this man, so dif- 
ferent from ordinary men, could be. Don Quixote saluted 
them, and after ascertaining that their road was the same as 
his, made them an offer of his company, and begged them to 
slacken their pace, as their young asses travelled faster than 
his horse ; and then, to gratify them, he told them in a few 
words who he was and the calling and profession he followed, 
which was that of a knight-errant seeking adventures in all 
parts of the world. He informed them that his name vras 
properly Don Quixote of La Mancha, and that he was called, 
by way of surname, the Knight of the Lions. 

All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so 
to the students, who very soon perceived the crack in Don 
Quixote’s pate ; for all that, however, they regarded him with 
admiration and respect, and one of them said to him, If you, 
sir knight, have no fixed road, as it is the way with those who 
seek adventures not to have any, let your worship come with 
us ; you will see one of the finest and richest weddings that 
up to this day have ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or for 
many a league round.” 

Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince’s, that he 
spoke of it in this way. Not at all,” said the student ; “ it 
is the wedding of a farmer and a farmer’s daughter, he the 


CHAPTER XIX, 


129 


richest in all this country, and she the fairest mortal ever set 
eyes on. The display with which it is to be attended will be 
something rare and out of the common, for it will be cele- 
brated in a meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is 
called, par excellence^ Quiteria the fair, as the bridegroom is 
called Camacho the rich. She is eighteen, and he twenty-two, 
and they are fairly matched, though some knowing ones, who 
have all the pedigrees in the world by heart, will have it that 
the family of the fair Quiteria is better than Camacho’s ; but 
no one minds that now-a-days, for wealth can solder a great 
many flaws. At any rate, Camacho is free-handed, and it is 
his fancy to screen the whole meadow with boughs and cover 
it in overhead, so that the sun will have hard work if he tries 
to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil. He has pro- 
vided dancers too, not only sword- but also bell-dancers, for in 
his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle 
the bells to perfection ; of shoe-dancers I say nothing, for of 
them he has engaged a host.* But none of these things, nor 
of the many others I have omitted to mention, will do more 
to make this a memorable wedding than the part which I sus- 
pect the despairing Basilio will play in it. This Basilio is a 
youth of the same village as Quiteria, and he lived in the 
house next door to that of her parents, of which circumstance 
Love took advantage to reproduce to the world the long-for- 
gotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe ; for Basilio loved Quite- 
ria from his earliest years, and she responded to his passion 
with countless modest proofs of affection, so that the loves of 
the two children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk and the 
amusement of the town. As they grew up, the father of Qui- 
teria made up his mind to refuse Basilio his wonted freedom 
of access to the house, and, to relieve himself of constant 
doubts and suspicions, he arranged a match for his daughter 
with the rich Camacho, as he did not approve of marrying her 
to Basilio, who had not so large a share of the gifts of fortune 
as of nature ; for if the truth be told ungrudgingly, he is the 
most agile youth we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a first- 
rate wrestler, and a great ball-player ; he runs like a deer, and 

* In the sword-dances the dancers carried swords with which they made 
cuts and passes at each other, the art of the performance consisting in 
going as near as possible without doing any injury. The bell-dancers 
wore a dress hung with little bells after the fashion of the morris-dancers 
in England. The peculiar agility of the shoe-dancers — zapateadores-— 
was shown by striking the sole of the shoe with the palm of the hand. 

VOL. II. — 9 


180 


DON QUIXOTE. 


leaps better than a goat, bowls over the nine-pins as if by 
magic, sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to make it 
speak, and, above all, handles a sword as well as the best.” 

For that excellence alone,” said Don Quixote at this, the 
youth deserves to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but 
Queen Guinevere herself, were she alive now, in spite of 
Launcelot and all who would try to prevent it.” 

“ Say that to my wife,” said Sancho, who had until now 
listened in silence, for she won’t hear of anything but each 
one marrying his equal, holding with the proverb ‘ each ewe to 
her like.’ ^ What I would like is that this good Basilio (for I 
am beginning to take a fancy to him already) should marry 
this lady Quiteria ; and a blessing and good luck — I meant to 
say the opposite — on people who would prevent those who 
love one another from marrying.” 

If all those who love one another were to marry,” said Don 
Quixote, it would deprive parents of the right to choose, and 
marry their children to the proper person and at the proper 
time ; and if it was left to daughters to choose husbands as 
they pleased, one would be for choosing her father’s servant, 
and another, some one she has seen passing in the street and 
fancies gallant and dashing, though he may be a drunken 
bully ; for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of the judg- 
ment, so much wanted in choosing one’s way of life ; and the 
matrimonial choice is very liable to error, and it needs great 
caution and the special favor of Heaven to make it a good one. 
He who has to make a long journey will, if he is wise, look 
out for some trusty and pleasant companion to accompany him 
before he sets out. Why, then, should not he do the same 
who has to make the whole journey of life down to the final 
halting-place of death, more especially when the companion 
has to be his companion in bed, at board, and everywhere, 
as the wife is to her husband ? The companionship of one’s 
wife is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, 
may be returned, or bartered, or changed ; for it is an insepa- 
rable accident that lasts as long as life lasts ; it is a noose that, 
once you put it round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, 
which, if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no unty- 
ing. I could say a great deal more on this subject, were I 
not prevented by the anxiety I feel to know if the senor licen- 
tiate has anything more to tell about the story of Basilio.” 

* Prov. 162. 


CHAPTER XIX, 


131 


To this the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him, 
licentiate, replied, I have nothing whatever to say further, 
but that from the moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria 
was to be married to Camacho the rich, he has never been seen 
to smile, or heard to utter a rational word, and he always goes 
about moody and dejected, talking to himself in a way that 
shows plainly he is out of his senses. He eats little and sleeps 
little, and all he eats is fruit, and when he sleeps, if he sleeps 
at all, it is in the field on the hard earth like a brute beast. 
Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other times he fixes his eyes 
on the earth in such an abstracted way that he might be taken 
for a clothed statue, with its drapery stirred by the wind. In 
short, he shows such signs of a heart crushed by suffering, 
that all we who know him believe that when to-morrow the 
fair Quiteria says ^ yes ’ it will be his sentence of death.’’ 

God will guide it better,” said Sancho, for God who 
gives the wound gives the salve ; ^ nobody knows what will 
happen ; there are a good many hours between this and to- 
morrow, and any one of them, or any moment, the house may 
fall ; I have seen the rain coming down and the sun shining all 
at one time ; many a one goes to bed in good health who can’t 
stir the next day. And tell me, is there any one who can 
boast of having driven a nail into the wheel of fortune ? No, 
faith ; and between a woman’s ^ yes ’ and ^ no ’ I would n’t vent- 
ure to put the point of a pin, for there would not be room for 
it ; if you tell me Quiteria loves Basilio heart and soul, then 
I ’ll give him a bag of good luck, for love, I have heard say, 
looks through spectacles that make copper seem gold, poverty 
wealth, and blear eyes pearls.” 

What art thou driving at, Sancho, curses on thee ? ” said 
Don Quixote ; for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and 
sayings together, no one can understand thee but Judas him- 
self, and I wish he had thee. Tell me, thou animal, what dost 
thou know about nails or wheels, or anything else ? ” 

Oh, if you don’t understand me,” replied Sancho, it is no 
wonder my words are taken for nonsense ; but no matter ; I 
understand myself, and I know I have not said anything very 
foolish in what I have said ; only your worship, senor, is always 
gravelling at everything I say, nay, everything I do.’* 

Cavilling, not gravelling,” said Don Quixote, thou pre- 
varicator of honest language, God confound thee ! ” 

* Prov. 82. 


132 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Don’t find fault with me, your worship,” returned Sancho, 
for you know I have not been bred up at court or trained at 
Salamanca, to know whether I am adding or dropping a letter 
or so in my words. Why ! God bless me, it ’s not fair to force 
a Sayago-man to speak like a Toledan ; * and may be there 
are Toledans who do not hit it off when it comes to polished 
talk.” 

That is true,” said the licentiate, for those who have been 
bred up in the Tanneries and the Zocodover, can not talk like 
those who are almost all day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and 
yet they are all Toledans. ^ Pure, correct, elegant, and lucid 
language will be met with in men of courtly breeding and 
discrimination, though they may have been born in Majala- 
honda ; ^ I say of discrimination, because there are many who 
are not so, and discrimination is the grammar of good language, 
if it be accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins have 
been a student of canon law at Salamanca, and I rather pique 
myself on expressing my meaning in clear, plain, and intelli- 
gible language.” 

“ If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with 
those foils you carry than on dexterity of tongue,” said the 
other student, you would have been head of the degrees, 
where you are now tail.” 

^‘Look here, bachelor Corchuelo,” returned the licentiate, 
^‘you have the most mistaken idea in the world about skill 
with the sword, if you think it useless.” 

“ It is no idea on my part, but an established truth,” replied 
Corchuelo ; and if you wish me to prove it to you by experi- 
ment, you have swords there, and it is a good opportunity ; I 
have a steady hand and a strong arm, and these joined with my 
resolution, which is not small, will make you confess that I am 
not mistaken. Dismount and put in practice your positions 
and circles and angles and science, for I hope to make you see 
stars at noonday with my rude raw swordsmanship, in which, 
next to God, I place my trust that the man is yet to be born 

’ Sayago, a district between Zamora and the Portuguese frontier. From 
the time of Alfonso X. the Castilian of Toledo was always regarded as the 
standard. 

* The Zocodover, the chief plaza of Toledo, and the Sok, or market- 
place, in the time of the Moors. The cathedral cloisters are to this day a 
favorite lounge in that sun-baked city. 

^ Majalahonda (properly Majadahonda), a small village a couple of 
leagues to the north-west of Madrid. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


133 


who will make me turn my back, and that there is not one in 
the world I will not compel to give ground.’^ 

“ As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern 
myself, ’’ replied the master of fence ; “ though it might be that 
your grave would be dug on the spot where you planted your 
foot the first time ; I mean that you would be stretched dead 
there for despising skill with the sword.’^ 

We shall soon see,’’ replied Corchuelo, and getting off his 
ass briskly, he drew out furiously one of the swords the licen- 
tiate carried on his beast. 

“ It must not be that way,” said Don Quixote at this point ; 

I will be the director of this fencing match, and judge of this 
often disputed question;” and dismounting from Kocinante 
and grasping his lance, he planted himself in the middle 
of the road, just as the licentiate, with an easy, graceful bear- 
ing and step, advanced towards Corchuelo, who came on against 
him, darting fire from his eyes, as the saying is. The other two 
of the company, the peasants, without dismounting from their 
asses, served as spectators of the mortal tragedy. The cuts, 
thrusts, down strokes, back strokes and doubles,* that Corchu- 
elo delivered were past counting, and came thicker than hops 
or hail. He attacked like an angry lion, but he was met by a 
tap on the mouth from the button of the licentiate’s sword that 
checked him in the midst of his furious onset, and made him 
kiss it as it had been a relic, though not as devoutly as relics 
are and ought to be kissed. The end of it was that the licen- 
tiate reckoned up for him by thrusts every one of the buttons 
of the short cassock he wore, tore the skirts into strips, like the 
tails of a cuttle-fish, knocked off his hat twice, and so com- 
pletely tired him out, that in vexation, anger, and rage, he took 
the sword by the hilt and flung it away With such force, that 
one of the peasants that were there, who was a notary, and who 
went for it, made an affidavit afterwards that he sent it nearly 
three-quarters of a league, which testimony will serve, and has 
served, to show and establish with all certainty that strength is 
overcome by skill. 

Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him 
said, By my faith, senor bachelor, if your worship takes my 
advice, you will never challenge any one to fence again, only 

* Mandohle is described in the Academy Dictionary as a cut or stroke 
delivered with both hands, but Arrieta explains it as one given by a turn 
of the wrist. 


134 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to wrestle and throw the bar, for you have the youth and 
strength for that ; but as for these fencers as they all call them, 
I have heard say they can put the point of a sword through the 
eye of a needle.’’ 

I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey,” ^ said 
Corchuelo, and with having had the truth I was so ignorant 
of proved to me by experience ; ” and getting up he embraced 
the licentiate, and they were better friends than ever ; and not 
caring to wait for the notary who had gone for the sword, as 
they saw he would be a long time about it, they resolved to 
push on so as to reach the village of Quiteria, to which they 
all belonged, in good time. 

During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held 
forth to them on the excellences of the sword, with such con- 
clusive arguments, and such figures and mathematical proofs, 
that all were convinced of the value of the science, and Cor- 
chuelo cured of his dogmatism. 

It grew dark ; but before they reached the town it seemed 
to them all as if there was a heaven full of countless glittering 
stars in front of it. They heard, too, the pleasant mingled 
notes of a variety of instruments, flutes, drums, psalteries, 
pipes, tabors, and timbrels, and as they drew near they per- 
ceived that the trees of a leafy arcade that had been constructed 
at the entrance of the town were filled with lights unaffected 
by the wind, for the breeze at the time was so gentle that it 
had not power to stir the leaves on the trees. The musicians 
were the life of the wedding, wandering through the pleasant 
grounds in separate bands, some dancing, others singing, others 
playing the various instruments already mentioned. In short, 
it seemed as though mirth and gayety were frisking and gam- 
bolling all over the meadow. Several other persons were 
engaged in erecting raised benches from which people might 
conveniently see the plays and dances that were to be per- 
formed the next day on the spot dedicated to the celebration of 
the marriage of Camacho the rich and the obsequies of Basilio. 
Don Quixote would not enter the village, although the peasant 
as well as the bachelor pressed him ; he excused himself, 
however, on the grounds, amply sufficient in his opinion, that 
it was the custom of knights-errant to sleep in the fields and 
woods in preference to towns, even were it under gilded ceil- 

^To fall off one’s donkey, caer de su borrico or burra^ ^ popular phrase 
for owning that one has been in the wrong. 


CHAPTER XX. 


135 


ings ; and so he turned aside a little out of the road, very 
much against Sancho’s will, as the good quarters he had 
enjoyed in the castle or house of Don Diego came back to 
his mind. 


CHAPTER XX. 

WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO 

THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE 

POOR. 

Scarce had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry 
the liquid pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his 
fervent rays, when Don Quixote, shaking off sloth from his 
limbs, sprang to his feet and called to his squire Sancho, who 
was still snoring; seeing which Don Quixote ere he roused 
him thus addressed him : Happy thou, above all the dwell- 
ers on the face of the earth, that, without envying or being 
envied, sleepest with tranquil mind, and that neither enchant- 
ers persecute nor enchantments affright. Sleep, I say, and will 
say a hundred times, without any jealous thoughts of thy mis- 
tress to make thee keep ceaseless vigils, or any cares as to how 
thou art to pay the debts thou owest, or find to-morrow’s food 
for thyself and thy needy little family, to interfere with thy 
repose. Ambition breaks not thy rest, nor doth this world’s 
empty pomp disturb thee, for the utmost reach of thy anxiety 
is to provide for thy ass, since upon my shoulders thou hast 
laid the support of thyself, the counterpoise and burden that 
nature and custom have imposed upon masters. The servant 
sleeps and the master lies awake thinking how he is to feed 
him, advance him, and reward him. The distress of seeing the 
sky turn brazen, and withhold its needful moisture from the 
earth, is not felt by the servant, but by the master, who in time 
of scarcity and famine must support him who has served him 
in times of plenty and abundance.” 

To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleep, 
nor would he have wakened up so soon as he did had not Don 
Quixote brought him to his senses with the butt of his lancc. 
He awoke at last, drowsy and lazy, and casting his eyes about 
in every direction, observed, “ There comes, if I don’t mistake, 
from the direction of that arcade a steam and a smell a great 


136 


DON QUIXOTE. 


deal more like fried rashers than galingale or thyme ; a wed- 
ding that begins with smells like that, by my faith, ought to 
be plentiful and unstinting.” 

“ Have done, thou glutton,” said Don Quixote ; come, let 
us go and witness this bridal, and see what the rejected Basilio 
does.” 

Let him do what he likes,” returned Sancho ; he ’d be 
poor and yet marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for 
himself, and he without a farthing ; is that all he wants ? 
Faith, seilor, it ’s my opinion the poor man should be content 
with what he can get, and not go looking for dainties in the 
bottom of the sea.^ I will bet my arm that Camacho could 
bury Basilio in reals ; and if that be so, as no doubt it is, what 
a fool Quiteria would be to refuse the fine dresses and jewels 
Camacho must have given her and will give her, and take 
Basilio’s bar-throwing and sword-play. They won’t give a pint 
of wine at the tavern for a good cast of the bar or a neat 
thrust of the sword. Talents and accomplishments that can’t 
be turned into money, let Count Dirlos have them ; ^ but when 
such gifts fall to one that has hard cash, I wish my condition 
of life was as becoming as they are. On a good foundation 
you can raise a good building, and the best foundation and 
groundwork in the world is money. ” 

For God’s sake, Sancho,” said Don Quixote here, stop 
that harangue ; it is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue 
all thou beginnest every instant, thou wouldst have no time 
left for eating or sleeping ; for thou wouldst spend it all in 
talking.” 

If your worship had a good memory,” replied Sancho, you 
would remember the articles of our agreement before we started 
from home this last time ; one of them was that I was to be let 
say all I liked, so long as it was not against my neighbor or 
your worship’s authority ; and so far, it seems to me, I have 
not broken the said article.” 

“ I remember no such article, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
“ and even if it were so, I desire you to hold your tongue and 
come along ; for the instruments we heard last night are already 
beginning to enliven the valleys again, and no doubt the mar- 

* Prov. 60. 

* Count Dirlos was the brother of Durandarte and hero of one of the 
ballads of the Carlovingian cycle. His name seems to have come to be 
used somewhat in the same fashion as that of " The Marquis of Carabas.” 
V. Quevedo’s Gran Tacano^ chap. xii. 


CHAPTER XX. 


137 


riage will take place in the cool of the morning, and not in the 
heat of the afternoon.” 

Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle 
on Rocinante and the pack-saddle on Dapple, they both mounted 
and at a leisurely pace entered the arcade. The first thing that 
presented itself to Sancho’s eyes was a whole ox spitted on a 
whole elm tree, and in the fire at which it was to be roasted 
there was burning a middling-sized mountain of fagots, and six 
stewpots that stood round the blaze had not been made in the 
ordinary mould of common pots, for they were six half wine- 
jars, each fit to hold the contents of a slaughter-house ; ^ they 
swallowed up whole sheep and hid them away in their insides 
without showing any more sign of them than if they were 
pigeons. Countless were the hares ready skinned and the 
.plucked fowls that hung on the trees for burial in the pots, 
numberless the wildfowl and game of various sorts suspended 
from the branches that the air might keep them cool. Sancho 
counted more than sixty wine- skins of over six gallons each, 
and all filled, as it proved afterwards, with generous wines. 
There were, besides, piles of the whitest bread, like the heaps 
of corn one sees on the threshing-floors. There was a wall made 
of cheeses arranged like open brick-work, and two caldrons 
full of oil, bigger than those of a dyer’s shop, served for cooking 
fritters, which when fried were taken out with two mighty 
shovels, and plunged into another caldron of prepared honey 
that stood close by. Of cooks and cook-maids there were over 
fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe. In the capacious belly of the 
ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigs, which, sewn up there, 
served to give it tenderness and flavor. The spices of different 
kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound, but by 
the quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short, 
all the preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, 
but abundant enough to feed an army. 

Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won 
his heart. The first to captivate and take his fancy were the 
pots, out of which he would have very gladly helped himself 
to a moderate pipkinful ; then the wine-skins secured his 
affections ; and lastly, the produce of the frying-pans, if, in- 
deed, such imposing caldrons may be called frying-pans ; and 
unable to control himself or bear it any longer, he approached 

* The tinajas or jars used for storing wine in La Mancha are sometimes 
seven or eight feet high, and nearly as much in diameter at the widest part 


138 


DON QUIXOTE. 


one of the busy cooks and civilly but hungrily begged permis- 
sion to soak a scrap of bread in one of the pots ; to which the 
cook made answer, Brother, this is not a day on which 
hunger is to have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho ; get 
down and look about for a ladle and skim off a hen or two, 
and much good may they do you.” 

I don’t see one,” said Sancho. 

Wait a bit,” said the cook ; sinner that I am ! how par- 
ticular and bashful you are ! ” and so saying, he seized a bucket 
and plunging it into one of the half jars took up three 
hens and a couple of geese, and said to Sancho, ^‘Ball to, 
friend, and take the edge off your appetite with these skim- 
mings until dinner-time comes.” 

I have nothing to put them in,” said Sancho. 

Well, then,” said the cook, ^^take spoon and all ; for Cam-, 
acho’s wealth and happiness furnish everything.” 

While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the 
entrance, at one end of the arcade, of some twelve peasants, all 
in holiday and gala dress, mounted on twelve beautiful mares 
with rich handsome field trappings and a number of little bells 
attached to their petrals, who, marshalled in regular order, ran 
not one but several courses over the meadow, with jubilant 
shouts and cries of Long live Camacho and Quiteria ! he as 
rich as she is fair, and she the fairest on earth ! ” 

Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, It is easy to 
see these folk have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso ; for if 
they had they would be more moderate in their praises of this 
Quiteria of theirs.” 

Shortly after this, several bands of dancers of various sorts 
began to enter the arcade at different points, and among them 
one of sword-dancers composed of some four-and-twenty lads 
of gallant and high-spirited mien, clad in the finest and whitest 
of linen, and with handkerchiefs embroidered in various colors 
with fine silk ; and one of those on the mares asked an active 
youth who led them if any of the dancers had been wounded. 

As yet, thank God, no one has been wounded,” said he, we 
are all safe and sound ; ” ^ and he at once began to execute 
complicated figures with the rest of his comrades, with so 
many turns and so great dexterity, that although Don Quixote 
was well used to see dances of the same kind, he thought he 

* The sword-dance was exceedingly dangerous, so much so that it was 
prohihited in course of time. 


CHAPTER XX. 


139 


had never seen any so good as this. He also admired another 
that came in composed of fair young maidens, none of whom 
seemed to be under fourteen or over eighteen years of age, all 
clad in green stuff, with their locks partly braided, partly 
flowing loose, but all of such bright gold as to vie with the 
sunbeams, and over them they wore garlands of jessamine, 
roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. At their head were a ven- 
erable old man and an ancient dame, more brisk and active, 
however, than might have been expected from their years. 
The notes of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied them, and with 
modesty in their countenances and in their eyes, and lightness 
in their feet, they looked the best dancers in the world. 

Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort 
they call “ speaking dances.” It was composed of eight 
nymphs in two files, with the god Cupid leading one and 
Interest the other, the former furnished with wings, bow, 
quiver and arrows, the latter in a rich dress of gold and silver 
of divers colors. The nymphs that followed Love bore their 
names written on white parchment in large letters on their 
backs. “ Poetry ” was the name of the first, Wit ” of the 
second, Birth ” of the third, and Valour ” of the fourth. 
Those that followed Interest were distinguished in the same 
way ; the badge of the first announced Liberality,” that of 
the second. Largess,” the third Treasure,” and the fourth 
Peaceful Possession.” In front of them all came a wooden 
castle drawn by four wild men, all clad in ivy and hemp 
stained green, and looking so natural that they nearly terrified 
Sancho. On the front of the castle and on each of the four 
sides of its frame it bore the inscription, Castle of Caution.” 
Four skilful tabor and flute players accompanied them, and the 
dance having been opened, Cupid, after executing two figures, 
raised his eyes and bent his bow against a damsel who stood 
between the turrets of the castle, and thus addressed her ; 

I am the mighty God whose sway 
Is potent over land and sea. 

The heavens above us own me ; nay, 

The shades below acknowledge me. 

I know not fear, I have my will, 

Whate’er my whim or fancy be ; 

For me there ’s no impossible, 

I order, bind, forbid, set free. 

Having concluded the stanza, he discharged an arrow at the 


140 


DON QUIXOTE. 


top of the castle, and went back to his place. Interest then 
came forward and went through two more figures, and as soon 
as the tabors ceased, he said : 

But mightier than Love am I, 

Though Love it be that leads me on, 

Than mine no lineage is more high, 

Or older, underneath the sun. 

To use me rightly few know how 
To act without me fewer still, 

Tor I am Interest, and I vow 
Tor evermore to do thy will. 

Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had 
gone through her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on 
the damsel of the castle, she said : 

With many a fanciful conceit, 

Tair Lady, winsome Poesy 
Her soul, an offering at thy feet. 

Presents in sonnets unto thee. 

If thou my homage wilt not scorn. 

Thy fortune, watched by envious eyes, 

On wings of poesy upborne 
Shall be exalted to the skies. 

Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest, Liberality ad- 
vanced, and after having gone through her figures, said : 

To give, while shunning each extreme. 

The sparing hand, the over-free, 

Therein consists, so wise men deem, 

The virtue Liberality. 

But thee, fair lady, to enrich. 

Myself a prodigal I ’ll prove, 

A vice not wholly shameful, which 
May find its fair excuse in love. 

In the same manner all the characters of the two bands ad- 
vanced and retired, and each executed its figures, and delivered 
its verses, some of them graceful, some burlesque, but Don 
Quixote’s memory (though he had an excellent one) only 
carried away those that have been just quoted. All then 
mingled together, forming chains and breaking off again with 
graceful, unconstrained gayety; and whenever Love passed 
in front of the castle he shot his arrows up at it, while Inter- 
est broke gilded pellets against it. At length, after they had 


CHAPTER XX. 


141 


danced a good while, Interest drew out a great purse, made of 
the skin of a large brindled cat and to all appearance full 
of money, and flung it at the castle, and with the force of 
the blow the boards fell asunder and tumbled down, leaving the 
damsel exposed and unprotected. Interest and the characters 
of his band advanced, and throwing a great chain of gold over 
her neck pretended to take her and lead her away captive, on 
seeing which. Love and his supporters made as though they 
would release her, the whole action being to the accompanh 
ment of the tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The 
wild men made peace between them, and with great dexterity 
readjusted and flxed the boards of the castle, and the damsel 
once more ensconced herself within ; and with this the dance 
wound up, to the great enjoyment of the beholders. 

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had 
composed and arranged it. She replied that it was a benefi- 
ciary of the town who had a nice taste in devising things of 
the sort. 

I will lay a wager,” said Don Quixote, “ that the same 
bachelor or beneficiary is a greater friend of Camacho’s than 
of Basilio’s, and that he is better at satire than at vespers ; he 
has introduced the accomplishments of Basilio and the riches 
of Camacho very neatly into the dance.” 

Sancho Panza, who was listening to all this, exclaimed, The 
king is my cock ; ^ I stick to Camacho.” 

“ It is easy to see thou art a clown, Sancho,” said Don Qui- 
xote, and one of that sort that cry ‘ Long life to the con- 
queror.’ ” 

I don’t know of what sort I am,” returned Sancho, ^^but I 
know very well I ’ll never get such elegant skimmings off Ba- 
silio’s pots as these I have got off Camacho’s ; and he showed 
him the bucketful of geese and hens, and seizing one began to 
eat with great gayety and appetite, saying, A fig for the 
accomplishments of Basilio ! As much as thou hast so much art 
thou worth, and as much as thou art worth so much hast thou.^ 
As a grandmother of mine used to say, there are only two fam- 
ilies in the world, the Haves and the Haven’ts ; * and she stuck 
to the Haves; and to this day, Senor Don Quixote, people 
would sooner feel the pulse of ^ Have ’ than of ^ Know ; ’ an ass 

* El Rey es mi gallo — an exclamation borrowed from cock-fighting. 
The winning cock was called el Rey. 

* Prov. 221. *ProT. 223. 


142 


DON QUIXOTE. 


covered with gold looks better than a horse with a pack-saddle. 
So once more I say I stick to Camacho, the bountiful skim- 
mings of whose pots are geese and hens, hares and rabbits ; 
but of Basilio’s, if any ever come to hand, or even to foot, 
they ’ll be only rinsings.” ^ 

Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho ? ” said Don 
Quixote. 

“ Of course I have finished it,” replied Sancho, because I 
see your worship takes offence at it; but if it was not for that, 
there was work enough cut out for three days.” 

God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote. 

At the rate we are going,” said Sancho, I ’ll be chewing 
clay before your worship dies ; and then, maybe, I ’ll be so 
dumb that I ’ll not say a word until the end of the world, or, 
at least, till the day of judgment.” 

Even should that happen, 0 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 

thy silence will never come up to all thou hast talked, art 
talking, and wilt talk all thy life ; moreover, it naturally stands 
to reason, that my death will come - before thine ; so I never 
expect to see thee dumb, not even when thou art drinking or 
sleeping, and that is the utmost I can say.” 

In good faith, senor,” replied Sancho, there ’s no trusting 
that fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon 
as the sheep, and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with 
equal foot upon the lofty towers of kings and the lowly huts of 
the poor. That lady is more mighty than dainty, she is no way 
squeamish, she devours all and is ready for all, and fills her 
alforjas with people of all sorts, ages, and ranks. She is no 
reaper that sleeps out the noontide ; at all times she is reap- 
ing and cutting down, as well the dry grass as the green ; she 
never seems to chew, but bolts and swallows all that is put 
before her, for she has a canine appetite that is never satisfied ; 
and though she has no belly, she shows she has a dropsy and 
is athirst to drink the lives of all that live, as one would drink 
a jug of cold water.” 

“ Say no more, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this ; don’t 
try to better it, and risk a fall ; for in truth what thou hast 
said about death in thy rustic phrase is what a good preacher 
might have said. I tell thee, Sancho, if thou hadst discretion 

’ Properly, a vile kind of wine made from the refuse and washings of 
the wine-press. 


CHAPTER XXL 


143 


equal to thy mother wit, thou mightst take a pulpit in hand, 
and go about the world preaching fine sermons.” 

He preaches well who lives well,” ^ said Sancho, and I 
know no more th’ology than that.” 

Nor needst thou,” said Don Quixote ; “ but I cannot con- 
ceive or make out how it is that, the fear of God being the 
beginning of wisdom, thou, who art more afraid of a lizard 
than of him, knowest so much.” 

Pass judgment on your chivalries, senor,” returned San- 
cho, ‘‘ and don’t set yourself up to judge of other men’s fears 
or braveries, for I am as good a fearer of God as my neigh- 
bors ; but leave me to despatch these skiminings, for all the 
rest is only idle talk that we shall be called to account for in 
the other world ; ” and so saying, he began a fresh attack on 
the bucket, with such a hearty appetite that he aroused Don 
Quixote’s, who no doubt would have helped him had he not 
been prevented by what must be told farther on. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER 
DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS. 

While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the dis- 
cussion set forth in the last chapter, they heard loud shouts 
and a great noise, which were uttered and made by the men 
on the mares as they went at full gallop, shouting, to receive 
the bride and bridegroom, who were approaching with musical 
instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and accom- 
panied by the priest and the relatives of both, and all the most 
distinguished people of the surrounding villages. When Sancho 
saw the bride, he exclaimed, By my faith, she is not dressed 
like a country girl, but like some fine court lady ; egad, as well 
as I can make out, the patena ^ she wears is rich coral, and her 
green Cuenca stuff is thirty-pile velvet ; ® and then the white 
linen trimming — by my oath, but it ’s satin ! Look at her 

* Prov. 191. 

* A metal ornament worn by peasant girls somewhat after the manner 
of a locket. 

® The richest ordinary velvet being three pile. 


144 


DON QUIXOTE. 


hands — jet rings on them ! May I never have luck if they ’re 
not gold rings, and real gold, and set with pearls as white as 
curdled milk, and every one of them worth an eye of one’s head ! 
Whoreson baggage, what hair she has ! if it ’s not a wig, I 
never saw longer or brighter all the days of my life. See how 
bravely she bears herself — and her shape ! Wouldn’t you say 
she was like a walking palm-tree loaded with clusters of dates ? 
for the trinkets she has hanging from her hair and neck look 
just like them. I swear in my heart she is a brave lass, and 
fit to pass the banks of Flanders.” ^ 

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s boorish eulogies, and 
thought that, saving his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had 
never seen a fairer woman. The fair Quiteria appeared some- 
what pale, which was, no doubt, because of the bad night brides 
always pass dressing themselves out for their wedding on the 
morrow. They advanced towards a theatre that stood on one 
side of the meadow, decked with carpets and boughs, where 
they were to plight their troth, and from which they were to 
behold the dances and plays ; but at the moment of their arrival 
at the spot they heard a loud outcry behind them, and a voice 
exclaiming, “ Wait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty ! ” 

At these words all turned round, and perceived that the 
speaker was a man clad in what seemed to be a loose black coat 
garnished with crimson patches like flames. He was crowned 
(as was presently seen) with a crown of gloomy cypress, and 
in his hand he held a long staff. As he approached he was 
recognized by every one as the gay Basilio, and all waited 
anxiously to see what would come of his words, in dread of 
some catastrophe in consequence of his appearance at such a 
moment. He came up at last weary and breathless, and plant- 
ing himself in front of the bridal pair, drove his staff, which 
had a steel spike at the end, into the ground, and, with a pale 
face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he thus addressed her in a 
hoarse, trembling voice: “Well dost thou know, ungrateful 
Quiteria, that, according to the holy law we acknowledge, so 
long as I live thou canst take no husband; nor art thou 
ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own exer- 
tions would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe 
the respect due to thy honor ; but thou, casting behind thee all 
thou owest to my true love, wouldst surrender what is mine to 

’ Fit for any enterprise ; the shoals of the Flemish coast being regarded 
with great awe by the Spanish sailors. 


CHAPTER XXL 


146 


another whose wealth serves to bring him not only good fort- 
une, but supreme happiness ; and now to complete it (not that 
I think he deserves it, but inasmuch as Heaven is pleased to 
bestow it upon him), I will, with my own hands, do away with 
the obstacle that may interfere with it, and remove myself from 
between you. Long live the rich Camacho ! many a happy 
year may he live with the ungrateful Quiteria ! and let the poor 
Basilio die, Basilio whose poverty clipped the wings of his 
happiness, and brought him to the grave ! ’’ and so saying, he 
seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and leaving one 
half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that concealed 
a tolerably long rapier ; and, what may be called its hilt being 
planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw 
himself upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half 
the steel blade appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling 
to the earth bathed in his blood, and transfixed by his own 
weapon. 

His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his 
misery and sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Boci- 
nante, hastened to support him, and took him in his arms, and 
found he had not yet ceased to breathe. They were about to 
draw out the rapier, but the priest who was standing by objected 
to its being withdrawn before he had confessed him, as the 
instant of its withdrawal would be that of his death. Basilio, 
however, reviving slightly, said in a weak voice, as though in 
pain, If thou wouldst consent, cruel Quiteria, to give me thy 
hand as my bride in this last fatal moment, I might still hope 
that my rashness would find pardon, as by its means I attained 
the bliss of being thine. 

Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his 
soul rather than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnest- 
ness implore God’s pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve ; 
to which Basilio replied that he was determined not to confess 
unless Quiteria first gave him her hand in marriage, for that 
happiness would compose his mind and give him courage to 
make his confession. 

Don Quixote, hearing the wounded man’s entreaty, exclaimed 
aloud that what Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and 
moreover a request that might be easily complied with ; and that 
it would be as much to Senor Camacho’s honor to receive the lady 
Quiteria as the widow of the brave Basilio as if he received her 
direct from her father. In this case,” said he it will be 

VoL. n. — 10 


146 


DON QUIXOTE. 


only to say ^ yes/ and no consequences can follow the utterance 
of the word, for the nuptial couch of this marriage must be the 
grave.’’ 

Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered 
and not knowing what to say or do ; but so urgent were the 
entreaties of Basilio’s friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria 
to give him her hand, so that his soul, quitting this life in 
despair, should not be lost, that they moved, nay, forced him, 
to say that if Quiteria were willing to give it he was satisfied, 
as it was only putting off the fulfilment of his wishes for a 
moment. At once all assailed Quiteria and pressed her, some 
with prayers, and others with tears, and others with persuasive 
arguments, to give her hand to poor Basilio ; but she, harder 
than marble and more unmoved than any statue, seemed una- 
ble or unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have given 
any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she 
meant to do, as Basilio now had his soul at his teeth, and there 
was no time for hesitation. 

On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grievea, 
and repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, 
his eyes already turned in his head, his breathing short and 
painful, murmuring the name of Quiteria between his teeth, 
and apparently about to die like a heathen and not like a 
Christian. Quiteria approached him, and kneeling, demanded 
his hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened his eyes 
and gazing fixedly at her, said, 0 Quiteria, why hast thou 
turned compassionate at a moment when thy compassion will 
serve as a dagger to rob me of life, for I have not now the 
strength left either to bear the happiness thou givest me in 
accepting me as thine, or to suppress the pain that is rapidly 
drawing the dread shadow of death over my eyes ? What 1 
entreat of thee, 0 thou fatal star to me, is that the hand thou 
demandest of me and wouldst give me, be not given out of com- 
plaisance or to deceive me afresh, but that thou confess and 
declare that without any constraint upon thy will thou givest 
it to me as to thy lawful husband ; for it is not meet that thou 
shouldst trifle with me at such a moment as this, or have re- 
course to falsehoods with one w'ho has dealt so truly by thee.” 

While uttering these words he showed such weakness that 
the bystanders expected each return of faintness would take his 
life with it. Then Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, 
holding in her right hand the hand of Basilio, said, No force 


CHAPTER XXL 


147 


would bend my will ; as freely, therefore, as it is possible for 
me to do so, I give thee the hand of a lawful wife, and take 
thine if thou givest it to me of thine own free will, untroubled 
and unaffected by the calamity thy hasty act has brought upon 
thee.” 

Yes, I give it,” said Basilio, not agitated or distracted, 
but with the unclouded reason that Heaven is pleased to grant 
me, thus do I give myself to be thy husband.” 

“ And I give myself to be thy wife,” said Quiteria, whether 
thou livest many years, or they carry thee from my arms to 
the grave.” 

“ For one so badly wounded,” observed Sancho at this point, 

this young man has a great deal to say ; they should make 
him leave off billing and cooing, and attend to his soul ; for to 
my thinking he has it more on his tongue than at his teeth.” 

Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, 
deeply moved and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the bless- 
ing upon them, and implored Heaven to grant an easy pas- 
sage to the soul of the newly wedded man, who, the instant he 
received the blessing, started nimbly to his feet and with 
unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that had been 
sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and 
some, more simple than inquiring, began shouting, A mira- 
cle, a miracle ! ” But Basilio replied, “No miracle, no mir- 
acle ; only a trick, a trick ! ” The priest, perplexed and 
amazed, made haste to examine the wound with both hands, 
and found that the blade had passed, not through Basilio’s 
flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron tube full of blood, 
which he had adroitly fixed at the place, the blood, as was after- 
wards ascertained, having been so prepared as not to congeal. 
In short, the priest and Camacho and most of those present 
saw they were tricked and made fools of. The bride showed 
no signs of displeasure at the deception ; on the contrary, hear- 
ing them say that the marriage, being fraudulent, would not be 
valid, she said that she confirmed it afresh, whence they all 
concluded that the affair had been planned by agreement and 
understanding between the pair, whereat Camacho and his sup- 
porters were so mortified that they proceeded to revenge them- 
selves by violence, and a great number of them drawing their 
swords attacked Basilio, in whose protection as many more 
swords were in an instant unsheathed, while Don Quixote 
taking the lead on horseback, with his lance over his arm and 


148 


DON QUIXOTE. 


well covered with his shield, made all give way before him. 
Sancho, who never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such 
doings, retreated to the wine-jars from which he had taken his 
delectable skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that 
spot would be respected. Hold, sirs, hold ! ” cried Don Qui- 
xote in a loud voice ; we have no right to take vengeance for 
wrongs that love may do to us : remember love and war are the 
same thing, and as in war it is allowable and common to make 
use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so in the 
contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed 
to attain the desired end are justifiable, provided they be not 
to the discredit or dishonor of the loved object. Quiteria 
belonged to Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and benefi- 
cent disposal of Heaven. Camacho is rich, and can purchase 
his pleasure when, where, and as it pleases him. Basilio has 
but this ewe-lamb, and no one, however powerful he may be, 
shall take her from him ; these two whom God hath joined man 
can not separate ; and he who attempts it must first pass the 
point of this lance ; ’’ and so saying he brandished it so stoutly 
and dexterously that he overawed all who did not know him. 

But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria 
made on Camacho’s mind that it banished her at once from 
his thoughts ; and so the counsels of the priest, who was a 
wise and kindly disposed man, prevailed with him, and by 
their means he and his partisans were pacified and tranquil- 
lized, and to prove it put up their swords again, inveighing 
against the pliancy of Quiteria rather than the craftiness of 
Basilio ; Camacho maintaining that, if Quiteria as a maiden 
had such a love for Basilio, she would have loved him too as a 
married woman, and that he ought to thank Heaven more for 
having taken her than for having given her. 

Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled 
and pacified, those on Basilio’s side were appeased ; and the rich 
Camacho, to show that he felt no resentment for the trick, 
and did not care about it, desired the festival to go on just as 
if he were married in reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor 
his bride, nor their followers would take any part in them, and 
they withdrew to Basilio’s village ; for the poor, if they are 
persons of virtue and good sense, have those who follow, 
honor, and uphold them, just as the rich have those who flatter 
and dance attendance on them. With them they carried 
Don Quixote, regarding him as a man of worth and a stout 


CHAPTER XXII , 


149 


one. Sancho alone had a cloud on his soul, for he found him- 
self debarred from waiting for Camacho’s splendid feast and 
festival, which lasted until night ; and thus dragged away, he 
moodily followed his master, who accompanied Basilio’s party, 
and left behind him the flesh-pots of Egypt ; though in his 
heart he took them with him, and their now nearly flnished 
shimmings that he carried in the bucket conjured up visions 
before his eyes of the glory and abundance of the good cheer 
he was losing. And so, vexed and dejected though not hun- 
gry, without dismounting from Dapple he followed in the 
footsteps of Rocinante. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WHERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE 
OF MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH 
THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY TERMI- 
NATION. 

Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote 
by the newly married couple, who felt themselves under an 
obligation to him for coming forward in defence of their cause ; 
and they exalted his wisdom to the same level with his cour- 
age, rating' him as a Cid in arms and a Cicero in eloquence. 
Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at the expense 
of the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was 
not a scheme arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of 
Basilio’s, who counted on exactly the result they had seen ; ^ 
he confessed, it is true, that he had confided his idea to some 
of his friends, so that at the proper time they might aid him 
in his purpose and insure the success of the deception. 

That,” said Don Quixote, “ is not and ought not to be called 
deception which aims at virtuous ends ; ” and the marriage of 
lovers he maintained to be a most excellent end, reminding 
them, however, that love has no greater enemy than hunger 
and constant want ; for love is all gayety, enjoyment, and hap- 
piness, especially when the lover is in the possession of the 
object of his love, and poverty and want are the declared ene- 

* It is difficult to see why Cervantes should have gone out of his way to 
make such a cold-blooded monster of the fair Quiteria as this gratuitous 
admission of his makes her. 


150 


DON QUIXOTE. 


mies of all these ; which he said to urge Senor Basilio to aban- 
don the practice of those accomplishments he was skilled in, 
for though they brought him fame, they brought him no money, 
and apply himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate 
industry, which will never fail those who are prudent and per- 
severing. The poor man who is a man of honor (if indeed a 
poor man can be a man of honor) has a jewel when he has a 
fair wife, and if she is taken from him, his honor is taken from 
him and slain. The fair woman who is a woman of honor, and 
whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with the laurels 
and crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty by itself attracts 
the desires of all who behold it, and the royal eagles and birds 
of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure ; but if beauty 
be accompanied by want and penury, then the ravens and the 
kites and other birds of prey assail it, and she who stands firm 
against such attacks well deserves to be called the crown of 
her husband. Bemember, 0 prudent Basilio,’’ added Don 
Quixote, it was the opinion of a certain sage, I know not 
whom, that there was not more than one good woman in the 
whole world ; and his advice was that each one should think 
and believe that this one good woman was his own wife, and 
in this way he would live happy. I myself am not married, 
nor, so far, has it ever entered my thoughts to be so ; never- 
theless I would venture to give advice to any one who might 
ask it, as to the mode in which he should seek a wife such as 
he would be content to marry. The first thing I would recom- 
mend him would be to look to good name rather than to 
wealth, for a good woman does not win a good name merely by 
being good, but by letting it be seen that she is so ; and open 
looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman’s 
honor than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into 
your house it will be an easy matter to keep her good, and 
even to make her still better ; but if you take a bad one you 
will find it hard work to mend her, for it is no very easy matter 
to pass from one extreme to another. I do not say it is impos- 
sible, but I look upon it as difficult.” 

Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, This master 
of mine, when I say anything that has weight and substance, 
says I might take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world 
preaching fine sermons ; but I say of him that, when he begins 
stringing maxims together and giving advice, not only might he 
take a pulpit in hand, but two on each finger, and go into the 


CHAPTER XX I L 


161 


market-places to his heart’s content. Devil take yon for a 
knight-errant, what a lot of things you know ! I used to think 
in my heart that the only thing he knew was what belonged to 
his chivalry ; but there is nothing he won’t have a finger in.” 

Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master over- 
heard him, and asked, “What art thou muttering there, Sancho ? ” 

“ I ’m not saying anything or muttering anything,” said 
Sancho ; “I was only saying to myself that I wish I had heard 
what your worship has said just now before I married ; perhaps 
I ’d say now, ‘ The ox that ’s loose licks himself well.’ ” ^ 

“ Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho ? ” said Don Quixote. 

“ She is not very bad,” replied Sancho ; “ but she is not very 
good ; at least she is not as good as I could wish.” 

“ Thou dost wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ to speak 
ill of thy wife ; for after all she is the mother of thy children.” 

“We are quits,” returned Sancho ; “ for she speaks ill of me 
whenever she takes it into her head, especially when she is 
jealous ; and Satan himself could not put up with her then.” 

In fine, they remained three days with the newly married 
couple, by whom they were entertained and treated like kings. 
Don Quixote begged the fencing licentiate to find him a guide 
to show him the way to the cave of Montesinos, as he had a 
great desire to enter it and see with his own eyes if the won- 
derful tales that were told of it all over the country were true. 
The licentiate said he would get him a cousin of his own, a 
famous scholar, and one very much given to reading books of 
chivalry, who would have great pleasure in conducting him to 
the mouth of the very cave, and would show him the lakes of 
Ruidera, which were likewise famous all over La Mancha, and 
even all over Spain ; and he assured him he would find him 
entertaining, for he was a youth who could write books good 
enough to be printed and dedicated to princes. The cousin 
arrived at last, leading an ass in foal, with a pack-saddle 
covered with a party-colored carpet or sackcloth ; Sancho sad- 
dled Rocinante, got Dapple ready, and stocked his alforjas, 
along with which went those of the cousin, likewise well filled ; 
and so, commending themselves to God and bidding farewell to 
all, they set out, taking the road for the famous cave of Mon- 
tesinos. 

On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and 
character his pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which 

» Prov. 27. 


152 


DON QUIXOTE, 


he replied that he was by profession a humanist, and that his 
pursuits and studies were making books for the press, all of 
great utility and no less entertainment to the nation. One 
was called ^^The Book of Liveries,” in which he described 
seven hundred and three liveries, with their colors, mottoes, 
and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might pick 
and choose any they fancied for festivals and revels, without 
having to go a begging for them from any one, or puzzling 
their brains, as the saying is, to have them appropriate to their 
objects and purposes ; for,” said he, I give the jealous, the 
rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what will suit them, and fit 
them without fail. I have another book, too, which I shall 
call ^ Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid,’ one of rare and 
original invention; for, imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I 
show in it who the Giralda of Seville and the Angel of the 
Magdalena were, what the sewer of Vecinguerra at Cordova was, 
what the bulls of Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the Leganitos 
and Lavapies fountains at Madrid, not forgetting those of el 
Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of the Priora ; ^ and all with their 
allegories, metaphors, and changes, so that they are amusing, 
interesting, and instructive, all at once. Another book I have 
which I call ^ The Supplement to Poly dore Vergil, which treats 
of the invention of things, and is a work of great erudition 
and research, for I establish and elucidate elegantly some 
things of great importance which Polydore omitted to mention. 
He forgot to tell us who was the first man in the world that 
had a cold in his head, and who was the first to try salivation 
for the French disease, but I give it accurately set forth, and 
quote more than five-and-twenty authors in proof of it, so your 
worship may perceive I have labored to good purpose and that 
the book will be of service to the whole world.” 

Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin’s words, 
said to him, “ Tell me, senor, — and God give you luck in print- 
ing your books, — can you tell me (for of course you know, as 
you know everything) who was the first man that scratched his 
head? For to my thinking it must have been our father 
Adam.” 

^ For the Giralda of Seville, and the bulls of Guisando, see notes, chap- 
ter xiv. p. 87. The Angel of the Magdalena was a weather-cock on a 
church of that name at Salamanca; the Vecinguerra was the sewer drain- 
ing the Potro quarter at Cordova. The other names are those of fountains 
in or on the outskirts of Madrid, of which I think the Lavapies is the 
only one now in existence. 


CHAPTER X'XII. 


153 


So it must,” replied the cousin ; “ for there is no doubt but 
Adam had a head and hair ; and l^eing the first man in the 
world he would have scratched himself sometimes.” 

So I think,” said Sancho ; but now tell me, who was the 
first tumbler in the world ? ” 

Really, brother,” answered the coiisin, I could not at this 
moment say positively without having investigated it ; I will 
look it up when I go back to where I have my books, and will 
satisfy you the next time we meet, for this will not be the last 
time.” 

Look here, senor,” said Sancho, don’t give yourself any 
trouble about it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I 
asked you. The first tumbler in the world, you must know, 
was Lucifer, when they cast or pitched him out of heaven ; for 
he came tumbling into the bottomless pit.” 

“ You are right, friend,” said the cousin ; and said Don Qui- 
xote, Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own ; 
thou hast heard them from some one else.” 

Hold your peace, senor,” said Sancho ; faith, if I take to 
asking questions and answering, I ’ll go on from this till to- 
morrow morning. Nay ! to ask foolish things and answer non- 
sense I needn ’t go looking for help from my neighbors.” 

Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote ; for there are some who weary themselves 
out in learning and proving things that, after they are known 
and proved, are not worth a farthing to the understanding or 
memory.” 

In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and 
that night they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not 
more than two leagues to the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin 
told Don Quixote, adding that if he was bent upon entering it, 
it would be requisite for him to provide himself with ropes, so 
that he might be tied and lowered into its depths. Don Qui- 
xote said that even if it reached to the bottomless pit he meant to 
see where it went to ; so they bought about a hundred fathoms 
of rope, and next day at two in the afternoon they arrived at 
the cave, the mouth of which is spacious and wide, but full of 
thorn and wild-fig bushes and brambles and briers, so thick and 
matted that they completely close it up and cover it over. ^ 

* The hamlet referred to is clearly that of Ruidera, about five leagues 
south-east of Argamasilla, near the Laguna del Key, the lowest of the 
chain of lakes from which the waters of the Guadiana flow into the plain 
of La Mancha. From thence across the hills it is about two leagues to the 


154 


DON QUIXOTE, 


On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don 
Quixote dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the 
latter very firmly with the ropes, and as they were girding and 
swathing him Sancho said to him, Mind what you are about, 
master mine ; don’t go burying yourself alive, or putting your- 
self where you ’ll be like a bottle put to cool in a well ; it ’s no 
affair or business of your worship’s to become the explorer of 
this, which must be worse than a Moorish dungeon.” 

Tie me and hold thy peace,” said Don Quixote, “ for an 
emprise like this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me ; ” ^ and 
said the guide, I beg of you, Sefior Don Quixote, to observe 
carefully and examine with a hundred eyes everything that is 
within there ; perhaps there may be some things for me to put 
into my book of transformations.” 

“ The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well 
enough,” ^ said Sancho Panza. 

When he had said this and finished the tying (which was 
not over the armor, but only over the doublet) Don Quixote 
observed, It was careless of us not to have provided ourselves 
with a small cattle-bell to be tied on the rope close to me, the 
sound of which would show that I was still descending and 
alive ; but as this is out of the question now, in God’s hand be 
it to guide me ; ” and forthwith he fell on his knees and in a 
low voice offered up a prayer to Heaven, imploring God to aid 
him and grant him success in this to all appearance perilous 
and untried adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, 0 mistress 
of my actions and movements, illustrious and peerless Dulcinea 
del Toboso, if so be the prayers and supplications of this thy 
fortunate lover can reach thy ears, by thy incomparable beauty 
I entreat thee to listen to them, for they but ask thee not to 
refuse me thy favor and protection now that I stand in such 
need of them. I am about to precipitate, to sink, to plunge 
myself into the abyss that is here before me, only to let the 

cave of Montesinos, which lies a little to the north of the ruins of the 
castle of Rocafria {v. map). There can be no doubt that Cervantes visited 
the spot, but he has somewhat exaggerated the dimensions of the cave. 
The mouth is not more than eight or ten feet wide, or the depth more than 
fifty or sixty ; nor is the descent so steep as to make a rope requisite. It 
is, in all probability, an ancient mine of Roman or possibly Carthaginian 
origin. The map of the district given in Pellicer’s edition of Don Quixote 
misplaces the cave and several other points, and is entirely misleading. 

* A line from the ballad in the Guerras Civiles de Granada^ " Estando 
el Rey Don Fernando.” 

* Prc f. 175. 


CHAPTER XXI L 


155 


world know that while thou dost favor me there is no impossi* 
bility I will not attempt and accomplish.’^ With these words 
he approached the cavern, and perceived that it was impossible 
to let himself down or effect an entrance except by sheer force 
or cleaving a passage ; so drawing his sword he began to demol- 
ish and cut away the brambles at the mouth of the cave, at 
the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and choughs flew 
out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don Quixote 
down ; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as 
he was a Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad 
omen and declined to bury himself in such a place. He got 
up, however, and as there came no more crows, or night-birds, 
like the bats that flew out at the same time with the crows, the 
cousin and Sancho giving him rope, he lowered himself into 
the depths of the dread cavern ; and as he entered it Sancho 
sent his blessing after him, making a thousand crosses over 
him and saying, God, and the Pena de Francia, and the Trin- 
ity of Gaeta ’ guide thee, O flower and cream of knights-errant. 
There thou goest, thou dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, 
arm of brass ; once more, God guide thee and send thee back 
safe, and sound, and unhurt to the light of this world thou art 
leaving to bury thyself in the darkness thou art seeking there ; ” 
and the cousin offered up almost the same prayers and suppli- 
cations. 

Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and 
more rope, and they gave it out little by little, and by the time 
the calls, which came out of the cave as out of a pipe, ceased 
to be heard they had let down the hundred fathoms of rope. 
They were inclined to pull Don Quixote up again, as they 
could give him no more rope ; however, they waited about half 
an hour, at the end of which time they began to gather in the 
rope again with great ease and without feeling any weight, 
which made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below ; 
and persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept bitterly, and hauled 
away in great haste in order to settle the question. TVTien, 
however, they had come to, as it seemed, rather more than 
eighty fathoms they felt a weight, at which they were greatly 
delighted ; and at last, at ten fathoms more, they saw Don 
Quixote distinctly, and Sancho called out to him, saying, 

‘ The Pena de Francia is a mountain near Ciudad Rodrigo, and one of 
the holy places of Spain in consequence of the discovery of an image 
of the Virgin there in the fifteenth century. The Trinity of Gaeta is the 
chapel dedicated to the Trinity above the harbor of Gaeta. 


156 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Welcome back, sen or, for we had begun to think you were 
going to stop there to found a family.” But Don Quixote 
answered not a word, and drawing him out entirely they per- 
ceived he had his eyes shut and every appearance of being 
fast asleep. 

They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still 
he did not awake ; however, they rolled him back and forwards 
and shook and pulled him about, so that after some time he 
came to himself, stretching himself just as if he were waking 
up from a deep and sound sleep, and looking about him as if 
scared he said, God forgive you, friends ; ye have taken me 
away from the sweetest and most delightful existence and spec- 
tacle that ever human being enjoyed or beheld. Now indeed 
do I know that all the pleasures of this life pass away like a 
shadow and a dream, or fade like the flower of the fleld. O 
ill-fated Montesinos ! O sore-wounded Durandarte ! 0 unhappy 
Belerma ! 0 tearful Guadiana, and ye 0 hapless daughters of 
Euidera who show in your waves the tears that flowed from 
your beauteous eyes ! ” 

The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention 
to the words of Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with 
immense pain he drew them up from his very bowels. They 
begged of him to explain himself, and tell them what he had 
seen in that hell down there. 

“ Hell do you call it ? ” said Don Quixote ; call it by no 
such name, for it does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see.” 

He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he 
was very hungry. They spread the cousin’s sack-cloth on the 
grass, and put the stores of the alforjas into requisition, and 
all three sitting down lovingly and sociably, they made a 
luncheon and a supper of it all in one ; and when the sack- 
cloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said, Let no 
one rise j and attend to me, my sons, both of you.” 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


167 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON 
ftUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MON- 
TESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH ' 
CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL. 

It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in 
clouds, with subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don 
Quixote to relate, without heat or inconvenience, what he had 
seen in the cave of Montesinos to his two illustrious hearers, 
and he began as follows : 

A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man’s height 
down in this pit, on the left-hand side, there is a recess or 
space, roomy enough to contain a large cart with its mules. 

A little light reaches it through some chinks or crevices, com- 
municating with it and open to the surface of the earth. This 
recess or space I perceived when I was already growing weary 
and disgusted at finding myself hanging suspended by the 
rope, travelling downwards into that dark region without any 
certainty or knowledge of where I was going to, so I resolved 
to enter it and rest myself for a while. I called out, telling 
you not to let out more rope until I bade you, but you can not 
have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you were sending 
me, and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it, 
ruminating and considering what I was to do to lower myself 
to the bottom, having no one to hold me up ; and as I was thus 
deep in thought and perplexity, suddenly and without provo- 
cation a profound sleep fell upon me, and when I least 
expected it, I know not how, I awoke and found myself in the 
midst of the most beautiful, delicious, delightful meadow that 
nature could produce or the most lively human imagination 
conceive. I opened my eyes, I rubbed them, and found I was 
not asleep, but thoroughly awake. Nevertheless, I felt my 
head and breast to satisfy myself whether it was I myself who 
was there or some empty delusive phantom ; but touch, feel- 
ing, the collected thoughts that passed through my mind, all 
convinced me that I was the same then and there that I am 
this moment. Next there presented itself to my sight a 
stately royal palace or castle, with walls that seemed built of 
clear transparent crystal j and through two great doors that 


158 


DON QUIXOTE. 


opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing 
towards me a venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mul- 
berry-colored serge that trailed upon the ground. On his 
shoulders and breast he had a green satin collegiate hood, and 
covering his head a black Milanese bonnet, and his snow-white 
beard fell below his girdle. He carried no arms whatever, 
nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized filberts, 
each tenth bead being like a moderate ostrich egg ; his bear- 
ing, his gait, his dignity and imposing presence held me spell- 
bound and wondering. He approached me, and the first 
thing he did was to embrace me closely, and then he said to 
me, ‘ -For a long time now, 0 valiant knight Don Quixote of 
La Mancha, we who are here enchanted in these solitudes have 
been hoping to see thee, that thou mayest make known to the 
world what is shut up and concealed in this deep cave, called 
the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered, an achieve- 
ment reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous 
courage alone to attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and 
I will show thee the marvels hidden within this transparent 
castle, whereof I am the alcaide and perpetual warden ; for 
I am Montesinos himself, from whom the cave takes its 
name.’ ^ 

The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if 
the story they told in the world above here was true, that he 
had taken out the heart of his great friend Durandarte from 
his breast with a little dagger, and carried it to the lady Be- 
lerma, as his friend when at the point of death had commanded 
him. He said in reply that they spoke the truth in every 
respect except as to the dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor 
little, but a burnished poniard sharper than an awl.” 

^ Montesinos is the hero of half a dozen ballads belonging to the Car- 
lovingian cycle, but does not figure in any of the French romances. 
According to the ballads he was one of the Peers, and son of Count Grim- 
altos, or Grimaldos, by a daughter of Charlemagne. He owed his name 
to having been born in a forest (won/c), where his father and mother 
were wandering, banished from court by the machinations of the traitor 
Tomillas. It appears to have been connected with the cave from a very 
early period, and according to one of the oldest of the ballads the adja- 
cent Castle of Rocafria, or Rocafrida, mentioned in Note 1, p. 153, chapter 
ixii., was the residence of Rosafiorida, a lady who was enamored of 
him de oidas — from hearsay. Clemencin says they were married and 
lived there ; but one of the ballads represents him as marrying Guiomar, 
a converted Saracen. It is odd that, with the castle close at hand here, 
Cervantes should not have referred to it. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


159 


That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces 
the Sevillian,” said Sancho. 

“ I do not know,” said Don Quixote ; it could not have been 
by that poniard maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was 
a man of yesterday, and the affair of Roncesvalles, where this 
mishap occurred, was long ago ; but the question is of no great 
importance, nor does it affect or make any alteration in the 
truth or substance of the story.” 

“ That is true,” said the cousin ; continue, Senor Don 
Quixote, for I am listening to you with the greatest pleasure 
in the world.” 

And with no less do I tell the tale,” said Don Quixote ; 

and so, to proceed — the venerable Montesinos led me into 
the palace of crystal, where, in a lower chamber, strangely 
cool and entirely of alabaster, was an elaborately wrought 
marble tomb, upon which I beheld, stretched at full length, a 
knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as are seen on 
other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand 
(which seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of 
great strength in its owner) lay on the side of his heart ; but 
before I could put any question to Montesinos, he, seeing me 
gazing at the tomb in amazement, said to me, ^ This is my 
friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the true lovers and 
valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, as I 
myself and many others are, by that French enchanter Merlin, 
who, they say, was the devil’s son ; ^ but my belief is, not 
that he was the devil’s son, but that he knew, as the saying is, 
a point more than the devil. How or why he enchanted us, 
no one knows, but time will tell, and I suspect that time is not 
far off. What I marvel at is, that I know it to be as sure as 
that it is now day, that Durandarte ended his life in my arms, 
and that, after his death, I took out his heart with my own 
hands ; and indeed it must have weighed more than two pounds, 
for, according to naturalists, he who has a large heart is more 
largely endowed with valor than he who has a small one. 
Then, as this is the case, and as the knight did really die, how 
comes it that he now moans and sighs from time to time, as if 
he were still alive ? ’ 

As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a 
loud voice : 

* Merlin has been claimed by the Bretons as one of themselves, but of 
course he was a Welshman. In Mallory’s Arthur he is called " a devil’s 
son.” 


160 


DON QUIXOTE. 


■ ■ 0 cousin Montesinos ! 

’T was my last request of thee, 

,When my soul hath left the body, 

And that lying dead I be, 

With thy poniard or thy dagger 
Cut the heart from out my breast. 

And bear it to Belerma. 

This was my last request.’ 

On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees 
before the unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, 
‘ Long since, 0 Senor Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since 
have I done what you bade me on that sad day when I lost 
you ; I took out your heart as well as I could, not leaving an 
atom of it in your breast, 1 wiped it with a lace handkerchief, 
and I took the road to France with it, having first laid you in 
the bosom of the earth with tears enough to wash and cleanse 
my hands of the blood that covered them after wandering 
among your bowels ; and more by token, 0 cousin of my soul, 
at the first village I came to after leaving Foncesvalles, I 
sprinkled a little salt upon your heart to keep it sweet, and 
bring it, if not fresh, at least pickled, into the presence of the 
lady Belerma, whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana 
your squire, the duenna Buidera and her seven daughters and 
two nieces, and many more of your friends and acquaintances, 
the sage Merlin has been keeping enchanted here these many 
years ; and although more than five hundred have gone by, not 
one of us has died ; Buidera and her daughters and nieces 
alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed. 
Merlin, out of the compassion he seems to have felt for them, 
changed into so many lakes, which to this day in the world of 
the living, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the 
lakes of Buidera.^ The seven daughters belong to the kings 

’These are an adaptation of lines from the ballad — 

“Oh Belerma! Oh Belerma! 

For mi mal fuiste engendrada.” 

Cancionero.^ s.a. Antwerp. Duran. Romanctro., No. 387. 

Durandarte and Belerma, like Montesinos, are o^jly to be found in the 
Spanish ballads of the Carlovingian cycle : Mila y Fontanals, however, 
thinks that in the name of the former there may be a reminiscence of that 
of Roland’s sword Durandal, or Durendal. 

* The number of the lakes of Ruidera is variously stated. In chapter 
xviii. Cervantes himself speaks of seven; here he makes them ten, if 
Ruidera herself is to be concluded. Clemencin says there are fifteen. 
Fascual Madoz, in his Geographical Dictionary of Spain., says fifteen in 


CHAPTER XXI I L 


161 


of Spain, and the two nieces to the knights of a very holy 
order called the Order of St. John.' Guadiana your squire, 
likewise bewailing your fate, was changed into a river of his 
own name, but when he came to the surface and beheld the sun 
of another heaven, so great was his grief at finding he was 
leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of the earth ; how- 
ever, as he can not help following his natural course, he from 
time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the 
world. The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with 
these, and others that come to him, he makes a grand and 
imposing entrance into Portugal ; but for all that, go where he 
may, he shows his melancholy and sadness, and takes no pride 
in breeding dainty choice fish, only coarse and tasteless sorts, 
very different from those of the golden Tagus. ^ All this that I 
tell you now, 0 cousin mine, I have told you many times before, 
and as you make no answer, I fear that either you believe 
me not, or do not hea-r me, whereat I feel God knows what 
grief. I have now news to give you, which, if it serves not to 
alleviate your sufferings, will not in any wise increase them. 
Know that you have here before you (open your eyes and yoii 
will see) that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has proph- 
esied such great things ; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I 
mean, who has again, and to better purpose than in past times, 
revived in these days knight-errantry, long since forgotten, and 
by whose intervention and aid it may be we shall be disen- 
chanted ; for great deeds are reserved for great men.’ ® 

one place, and fourteen in another. Ford, in the Handbook^ says there are 
eleven, which was the number I counted in a ramble down the valley some 
years ago. Most of them are mere tarns, but two or three are of consid- 
erable extent, the largest. La Colgada, being about two miles long. In most 
instances there is no visible communication between them. It is strange 
that Cervantes, who so often bestows wood and water, hills and vales, on 
Don Quixote’s parched, flat, treeless country, should not have a word to 
say for this pretty winding valley, with its succession of Claude-like vistas 
that would charm the eye anywhere, but here, after the bare brown 
steppes of La Mancha, seem veritable landscapes of Arcadia. 

^ The boundaries of New Castile and the kingdom of Murcia meet in 
the upper portion of the valley, the head of which belongs entirely to the 
latter. 

* The Guadiana, after issuing from the Ruidera valley near the pictur- 
esque old castle of Penaroya, traverses the plain of La Mancha and dis- 
appears from sight a little to the north of Argamasilla, to reappear seven 
or eight leagues off at the Ojos de la Guadiana, near Daimiel. Ruy Gon- 
zalez Clavijo availed himself of the phenomenon to boast to Tamerlane 
in 1403 that his master King Henry had a bridge so large that a hundred 
thousand sheep browsed upon it. ^Prov. 110. 

VOL. II. — 11 


162 


DON QUIXOTE. 


‘ And if that may not be/ said the wretched Durandarte 
in a low and feeble voice, ‘ if that may not be, then, 0 my 
cousin, I say patience and shuffle ; ^ and turning over on 

his side, he relapsed into his former silence without uttering 
another word. 

And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, 
accompanied by deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, 
and through the crystal wall I saw passing through another 
chamber a procession of two lines of fair damsels all clad in 
mourning, and with white turbans of Turkish fashion on their 
heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there came a lady, for so 
from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in black, with a 
white veil so long and ample that it swept the ground. Her 
turban was twice as large as the largest of any of the others ; 
her eyebrows met, her nose was rather flat, her mouth was 
large but with ruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at times she 
allowed a glimpse, were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as 
white as peeled almonds. She carried in her hands a fine 
cloth, and in it, as well as I could make out, a heart that had 
been mummied, so parched and dried was it. Montesinos told 
me that all those forming the procession were the attendants 
of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted there with 
their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried 
the heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her 
damsels, four days in the week went in procession singing, or 
rather weeping, dirges over the body and miserable heart of 
his cousin ; and that if she appeared to me somewhat ill-favored, 
or not so beautiful as fame reported her, it was because of the 
bad nights and worse days that she passed in that enchant- 
ment, as I could see by the great dark circles round her eyes, 
and her sickly complexion ; ^ her sallowness, and the rings round 
her eyes,’ said he, ^ are not caused by the periodical ailment 
usual with women, for it is many months and even years since 
she has had any, but by the grief her own heart suffers because 
of that which she holds in her hand perpetually, and which 
recalls and brings back to her memory the sad fate of her lost 
lover ; were it not for this, hardly would the great Dulcinea 
del Toboso, so celebrated in all these parts, and even in all the 
world, come up to her for beauty, grace, and gayety.’ 

‘ Hold hard ! ’ said I at this, ^ tell your story as you ought, 
Senor Don Montesinos, for you know very well that all com- 
* Prov. 163. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


163 


parisons are odious,^ and there is no occasion to compare one 
person with another ; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what 
she is, and the lady Dona Belerma is what she is and has been, 
and that ’s enough/ To which he made answer, ‘ Forgive me, 
Senor Don Quixote ; I own I was wrong and spoke unadvisedly 
in saying that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come up to the 
lady Belerma ; for it were enough for me to have learned, by 
what means I know not, that you are her knight, to make me 
bite my tongue out before I compared her to anything save 
heaven itself/ After this apology which the great Monte- 
sinos made me, my heart recovered itself from the shock I had 
received in hearing my lady compared with Belerma/’ 

Still I wonder,” said Sancho, that your worship did not 
get upon the old fellow and bruise every bone of him with 
kicks, and pluck his beard until you did n’t leave a hair in it.” 

“Nay^ Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, it would not 
have been right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay 
respect to the aged, even though they be not knights, but 
especiall}^ those who are, and who are enchanted ; I only know 
I gave him as good as he brought in the many other questions 
and answers we exchanged.” 

I can not understand, Senor Don Quixote,” remarked the 
cousin here, how it is that your worship, in such a short space 
of time as you have been below there, could have seen so many 
things, and said and answered so much.” 

How long is it since I went down ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

Little better than an hour,” replied Sancho. 

That can not be,” returned Don Quixote, because night 
overtook me while I was there, and day came, and it was night 
again and day again three times ; so that, by my reckoning, I 
have been three days in those remote regions beyond our ken.” 

My master must be right,” replied Sancho ; for as every- 
thing that has happened to him is by enchantment, maybe 
what seems to us an hour would seem three days and nights 
there.” 

That ’s it,” said Don Quixote. 

And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor ? ” 
asked the cousin. 

“ I never touched a morsel,” answered Don Quixote, “ noi 
did I even feel hunger, or think of it.” 

<< And do the enchanted eat ? ” said the cousin. 


* Prov. 56. 


164 


DON QUIXOTE. 


They neither eat/’ said Don Quixote ; nor are they sub- 
ject to the greater excrements, though it is thought that their 
nails, beards, and hair grow.” 

And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor ? ” asked Sancho. 

Certainly not,” replied Don Quixote; ^^at least, during 
those three days I was with them not one of them closed an 
eye, nor did I either.” 

The proverb, ‘ Tell me what company thou keepest and I’ll 
tell thee what thou art,’ is to the point here,” ^ said Sancho ; 

your worship keeps company with enchanted people that are 
always fasting and watching ; what wonder is it, then, that 
you neither eat nor sleep while you are with them ? But for- 
give me, senor, if I say that of all this you have told us now, 
may God take me — I was just going to say the devil — if I 
believe a single particle.” 

What ! ” said the cousin, “ has Senor Don Quixote, then, 
being lying ? Why, even if he wished it he has not had time 
to imagine and put together such a host of lies.” 

I don’t believe my master lies,” said Sancho. 

If not, what dost thou believe ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

I believe,” replied Sancho, that this Merlin, or those 
enchanters who enchanted the whole crew your worship says 
you saw and discoursed with down there, stuffed your imagi- 
nation or your mind with all this rigmarole you have been 
treating us to, and all that is still to come.” 

All that might be, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote ; but it 
is not so, for everything that I have told you I saw with my own 
eyes, and touched with my own hands. But what will you say 
when I tell you now how, among the countless other marvel- 
lous things Montesinos showed me (of which at leisure and at 
the proper time I will give thee an account in the course of our 
journey, for they would not be all in place here), he showed 
me three country girls who went skipping and capering like 
goats over the pleasant fields there, and the instant I beheld 
them I knew one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and 
the other two those same country girls that were with her 
and that we spoke to on the road from El Toboso ! I asked 
Montesinos if he knew them, and he told me he did not, but he 
thought they must be some enchanted ladies of distinction, for 
it was only a few days before that they had made their appear- 
ance in those meadows ; but I was not to be surprised at that, 

* Prov. 13. 


CHAPTER XXI I L 


165 


because there were a great many other ladies there of times 
past and present, enchanted in various strange shapes, and 
among them he had recognized Queen Guinevere and her dame 
Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when 
he came from Britain.” 

When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready 
to take leave of his senses, or die with laughter ; for, as he 
knew the real truth about the pretended enchantment of Dul- 
cinea, in which he himself had been the enchanter and con- 
cocter of all the evidence, he made up his mind at last that, 
beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and stark mad, 
so he said to him, It was an evil hour, a worse season, and a 
sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, went 
down to the other world, and an unlucky moment when you 
met with Senor Montesinos, who has sent you back to us like 
this. You were well enough here above in your full senses, 
such as God had given you, delivering maxims and giving 
advice at every turn, and not as you are now, talking the 
greatest nonsense that can be imagined.” 

As I know thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, I heed not 
thy words.” 

Nor I your worship’s,” said Sancho,/^ whether you beat me 
or kill me for those I have spoken, and will speak if you don’t 
correct and mend your own. But tell me, while we are still at 
peace, how or by what did you recognize the lady our mistress ; 
and if you spoke to her, what did you say, and what did she 
answer ? ” 

1 recognized her,” said Don Quixote, by her wearing the 
same garments she wore when thou didst point her out to me. 
I spoke to her, but she did not utter a word in reply ; on the 
contrary, she turned her back on me and took to flight, at such 
a pace that a crossbow bolt could not have overtaken her. I 
wished to follow her, and would have done so had, not Mon- 
tesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it would 
be useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when it 
would be necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, 
moreover, that in course of time he would let me know how he 
and Belerma, and Durandarte, and all who were there, were to 
be disenchanted. But of all I saw and observed down there, 
what gave me most pain was, that while Montesinos was speak- 
ing to me, one of the two companions of the hapless Dulcinea 
approached me on one side, without my having seen her coming 


166 


DON QUIXOTE, 


and with tears in her eyes said to me, in a low, agitated voice, 
‘ My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and 
entreats you to do her the favor of letting her know how you 
are ; and, being in great need, she also entreats your worship 
as earnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a 
dozen reals, or as much as you may have about you, on this 
new dimity petticoat that I have here ; and she promises to 
repay them very speedily.’ I was amazed and taken aback by 
such a message, and turning to Senor Montesinos I asked him, 
^ Is it possible, Senor Montesinos, that persons of distinction 
under enchantment can be in need ? ’ To which he replied, 

‘ Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that which is called need is 
to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters and 
reaches every one, and does not spare even the enchanted ; and 
as the lady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, 
and the pledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing 
for it but to give them to her, for no doubt she must be in 
some great strait.’ ^ I will take no pledge of her,’ I replied, 

^ nor yet can I give her what she asks, for all I have is four 
reals ; ’ which I gave (they were those which thou, Sancho, 
gavest me the other day to bestow in alms upon the poor I met 
along the road), and I said, ‘ Tell your mistress, my dear, that 
I am grieved to the heart because of her distresses, and wish I 
was a Fucar ^ to remedy them, and that I would have her know 
that I can not be, and ought not be, in health while deprived of 
the happiness of seeing her and enjoying her discreet conver- 
sation, and that I implore her as earnestly as I can, to allow 
herself to be seen and addressed by this her captive servant 
and forlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects 
it she will hear it announced that I have made an oath and 
vow after the fashion of that which the Marquis of Mantua 
made to avenge his nephew Baldwin, when he found him at 
the point of death in the heart of the mountains,^ which w^as, 
not to eat bread off a table-cloth, and the other trifling matters 
which he added, until he had avenged him ; and I will make 
the same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the 
earth more thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal 
ever roamed them,® until I have disenchanted her.’ ^ All that, 

* The Spanish form of Tugger, the name of the great Augsburg capi- 
talists of the sixteenth century. 

• Referring to the ballad quoted in vol. i. chapter v. and elsewhere. 

® The Travels of the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal through the four 
quarters of the written by Juan Gomez de Sanestevan,” Sara- 

gossa, 1570, was a popular book and passed through several editions. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


167 


and moie, you owe my lady/ was the damsel’s answer to me, 
and taking the four reals, instead of making me a courtesy she 
cut a caper, springing two full yards into the air.” 

0 blessed God ! ” exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, is it 
possible that such things can be in the world, and that enchant- 
ers and enchantments can have such power in it as to have 
changed my master’s right senses into a craze so full of absurd- 
ity ! O senor, senor, for God’s sake, consider yourself, have a 
care for your honor, and give no credit to this silly stuff that 
has left you scant and short of wits.” 

“ Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote ; and not being experienced in the things 
of the world, everything that has some difficulty about it, 
seems to thee impossible ; but time will pass, as I said before, 
and I will tell thee some of the things I saw down there which 
will make thee believe what I have related now, the truth of 
which admits of neither reply nor question.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS 
TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDER- 
STANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY. 

He who translated this great history from the original 
written by its first author, Cid Hamet Benengeli, says that on 
coming to the chapter giving the adventures of the cave of 
Montesinos he found written on the margin of it, in Hamet’s 
own hand, these exact words : 

I can not convince or persuade myself that everything 
that is written in the preceding chapter could have precisely 
happened to the valiant Don Quixote ; and for this reason, that 
ail the adventures that have occurred up to the present have 
been possible and probable ; but as for this one of the cave, I 
see no way of accepting it as true, as it passes all reasonable 
bounds. For me to believe that Don Quixote could lie, he 
being the most truthful gentleman and the noblest knight of 
his time, is impossible ; he would not have told a lie though he 
were shot to death with arrows. On the other hand, I reflect 
that he related and told the story with all the circumstances 


168 


DON QUIXOTE. 


detailed, and that he could not in so short a space have fabrh 
cated such a vast complication of absurdities ; if, then, this 
adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault of mine; and so, 
without affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write it down. 
Decide for thyself in thy wisdom, reader ; for I am not bound, 
nor is it in my power, to do more ; though certain it is they 
say that at the time of his death he retracted, and said he had 
invented it, thinking it matched and tallied Avith the advent- 
ures he had read of in his histories.” And then he goes on to 
say : 

The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho’s boldness as at the 
patience of his master, and concluded that the good temper the 
latter displayed arose from the happiness he felt at having 
seen his lady Dulcinea, even enchanted as she was ; because 
otherwise the words and language Sancho had addressed to 
him deserved a thrashing; for indeed he seemed to him to 
have been rather impudent to his master, to whom he now ob- 
served, “ I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, look upon the 
time I have spent in travelling with your worship as very well 
employed, for I have gained four things in the course of it ; 
the first is that I have made your acquaintance, Avhich I con- 
sider great good fortune ; the second, that I have learned what 
the cave pf.Montesinps contains, together with the transfornia- 
tions of Guadiana and pf the lakes of Ruidera, which will be 
of use to me for the Spanish , Ovid that I have in hand ; the 
third, to have discovered the antiquity of cards, that they were 
in use at least in the time of Charlemagne, as may be inferred 
from the words you say Durandarte uttered when, at the end 
of that long spell Avhile Montesinos was talking to him, he woke 
up and said, ^ Patience and shuffie.’ This phrase and expres- 
sion he could not have learned while he was enchanted, but 
only before he had become so, in France, and in the time of 
the aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this demonstration 
is just the thing for me for that other book I am writing, the 
^ Supplement to Polydore Vergil on the Invention of Antiqui- 
ties ; for I believe he never thought of inserting that of cards 
in his book, as I mean to do in mine, and it will be a matter of 
great importance, particularly when I can cite so grave and 
veracious an authority as Senor Durandarte. And the fourth 
thing is, that I have ascertained the source of the river Gua- 
diana, heretofore unknown to mankind.” 

You are right,” said Don Quixote.; ‘^but I should like to 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


169 


know, if by God’s favor they grant you a license to print those 
books of yours — which I doubt — to whom do you mean to 
dedicate them 

There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can 
be dedicated,” said the cousin. 

^^Not many,” said Don Quixote; not that they are un- 
worthy of it, but because they do not care to accept books and 
incur the obligation of making the return that seems due to the 
author’s labor and courtesy. One prince I know who makes 
up for all the rest, and more — how much more, if I ventured 
to say, perhaps I should stir up envy in many a noble breast ; ^ 
but let this stand over for some more convenient time, and let 
us go and look for some place to shelter ourselves to-night.” 

“ Not far from this,” said the cousin, there is a hermitage, 
where there lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and 
who has the reputation of being a good Christian and a very 
intelligent and charitable man. Close to the hermitage he has 
a small house which he built at his own cost, but though 
small it is large enough for the reception of guests.” 

^^Has this hermit any hens, do you think ?” asked Sancho. 

Dew hermits are without them,” said Don Quixote ; for 
those we see now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyp- 
tian deserts, who were clad in palm-leaves, and lived on the 
roots of the earth. But do not think that by praising these I 
am disparaging the others ; all I mean to say is, that the pen- 
ances of those of the present day do not come up to the asceti- 
cism and austerity of former times ; but it does not follow 
from this that they are not all worthy ; at least I think them 
so ; and at the worst the hypocrite who pretends to be good 
does less harm than the open sinner.” 

At this point they saw approaching the spot where they 
stood a man on foot, proceeding at a rapid pace, and beating 
a mule loaded with lances and halberds. When he came up to 
them, he saluted them and passed on without stopping. Don 
Quixote called to him, Stay, good fellow ; you seem to be 
making more haste than suits that mule.” 

I can not stop, senor,” answered the man ; for the arms 
you see I carry here, are to be used to-morrow, so I must 
not delay; God be with you. But if you want to know 
what I am carrying them for, I mean to lodge to-night at 
the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if you be going 
1 A passing compliment to his patron, the Conde de Lemos. 


170 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the same road you will find me there, and I will tell you 
some curious things ; once more God be with you ; ’’ and he 
urged on his mule at such a pace that Don Quixote had no 
time to ask him what these curious things were that he meant 
to tell them ; and as he was somewhat inquisitive, and always 
tortured by his anxiety to learn something new, he decided to 
set out at once, and go and pass the night at the inn instead of 
stopping at the hermitage, where the cousin would have had 
them halt. Accordingly they mounted and all three took the 
direct road for the inn, which they reached a little before 
nightfall. On the road the cousin proposed they should go up 
to the hermitage to drink a sup. The instant Sancho heard 
this he steered his Dapple towards it, and Don Quixote and 
the cousin did the same ; but it seems Sancho’s bad luck so 
ordered it that the hermit was not at home, for so a sub- 
hermit they found in the hermitage told them. They called 
for some of the best.^ She replied that her master had 
none, but that if they liked cheap water she would give it 
with great pleasure. 

If I found any in water,’’ said Sancho, there are wells 
along the road where I could have had enough of it. Ah, 
Camacho’s wedding, and plentiful house of Don Diego, how 
often do I miss you ! ” 

Leaving the hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, 
and a little farther they came upon a youth who was pacing 
along in front of them at no great speed, so that they overtook 
him. He carried a sword over his shoulder, and slung on it 
a budget or bundle of his clothes apparently, probably his 
breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak and a shirt or two ; for 
he had on a short jacket of velvet with a gloss like satin 
on it in places, and had his shirt out ; his stockings were of 
silk, and his shoes square-toed as they wear them at court. ^ 
His age might have been eighteen or nineteen j he was of a 
merry countenance, and to all appearance of an active habit, 
and he went along singing seguidillas ® to beguile the weari- 
someness of the road. As they came up with him he was just 
finishing one, which the cousin got by heart and they say ran 
thus — 

' Literally, " some of the dear.” 

* A fashion introduced by the Duke of Lerma, whose feet were dis- 
figured by bunions. 

^ Verses of shorter lines than the ballad, and generally of a- humorous 
or satirical cast. 


CHAPTER XXi'V. 


171 


I ’m off to the wars 
For the want of pence, 

Oh, had I but money 
I ’d show more sense. 

The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, You 
travel very airily, sir gallant ; whither bound, may we ask, if 
it is your pleasure to tell us ? ’’ 

To which the youth replied, The heat and my poverty are 
the reason of my travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that 
I am bound.’^ 

How poverty ? ’’ asked Don Quixote ; the heat one can 
understand.” 

“ Sefior,” replied the youth, “ in this bundle I carry velvet 
pantaloons to match this jacket ; if I wear them out on the 
road, I shall not be able to make a decent appearance in them 
in the city, and I have not the wherewithal to buy others ; 
and so for this reason, as well as to keep myself cool, I am 
making my way in this fashion to overtake some companies of 
infantry that are not twelve leagues off, in which I shall enlist, 
and there will be no want of baggage trains to travel with 
after that to the place of embarkation, which they say will be 
Carthagena ; ^ I would rather have the King for a master, and 
serve him in the wars, than serve a court pauper.” 

And did you get any bounty, now ? ” asked the cousin. 

If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or 
personage of distinction,” replied the youth, “ I should have 
been safe to get it ; for that is the advantage of serving good 
masters, that out of the servants’ hall men come to be ancients 
or captains, or get a good pension. But I, to my misfortune, 
always served place hunters and adventurers, whose keep and 
wages were so miserable and scanty that half went in pay- 
ing for the starching of one’s collar ; it would be a miracle 
indeed if a page volunteer ever got anything like a reasonable 
bounty.” 

‘^And tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” asked Don Quixote, <^is 
it possible, my friend, that all the time you served you never 
got any livery ? ” 

“ They gave me two,” replied the page ; but just as when 
one quits a religious community before making profession, 

* The war to which the youth was bound was probably that which had 
arisen in Italy in 1613, but of the Conflicting claims of the Dukes oi 
Savoy and Mantua to the Duchy of Montferrat. 


172 


DON QUIXOTE. 


they strip him of the dress of the order and give him back his 
own clothes, so did my masters return me mine ; for as soon as 
the business on which they came to court was finished, they 
went home and took back the liveries they had given merely 
for show.^’ 

^<What spilorceria ! — as an Italian would say,” said Don 
Quixote ; but for all that, consider yourself happy in having 
left court with as worthy an object as you have, for there is 
nothing on earth more honorable or profitable than serving, 
first of all God, and then one’s king and natural lord, particu- 
larly in the profession of arms, by which, if not more wealth, 
at least more honor is to be won than by letters, as I have said 
many a time ; for though letters may have founded more great 
houses than arms, still those founded by arm& have I know not 
what superiority over those founded by letters, and a certain 
splendor belonging to them that distinguishes them above all. 
And bear in mind what I am now about to say to you, for it 
will be of great use and comfort to you in time of trouble ; it 
is, not to let your mind dwell on the adverse chances that 
may befall you ; for the worst of all is death, and if it be a 
good death, the best of all is to die. They asked Julius 
Caesar, the valiant Koman emperor, what was the best death. 
He answered, that which is unexpected, which comes suddenly 
and unforeseen ; and though he answered like a pagan, and 
one without the knowledge of the true God, ,yet, as far as 
sparing our feelings is concerned, he was right ; for suppose 
you are killed in the first engagement or skirmish, whether by 
a cannon ball or blown up by mine, what matters it ? It is 
only dying, and all is over ; and according to Terence,^ a sol- 
dier shows better dead in battle, than alive and safe in flight ; 
and the good soldier wins fame in proportion as he is obedient 
to his captains and those in command over him. And re- 
member, my son, that it is better for the soldier to smell of 
gunpowder than of civet, and that if old age should come upon 
you in this honorable calling, though you may be covered with 
wounds and crippled and lame, it will not come upon you 
without honor, and that such as poverty can not lessen ; espe- 
cially now that provisions are being made for supporting and 
relieving old and disabled soldiers ; for it is not right to deal 
with them after the fashion of those who set free and get rid 

’ It is not easy to say what passage Cervantes could have been think- 
ing of. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


173 


of their black slaves when they are old and useless, and, turning 
them out of their houses under the pretence of making them 
free, make them slaves to hunger, from which they can not 
expect to be released except by death. But for the present 
I won’t say more than get ye up behind me on my horse as far 
as the inn, and sup with me there, and to-morrow you shall 
pursue your journey, and God give you as good speed as your 
intentions deserve.” 

The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though he 
did that to supper at the inn ; and here they say Sancho said 
to himself, God be with you for a master ; is it possible that 
a man who can say things so many and so good as he has said 
just now, can say that he saw the impossible absurdities he 
reports about the cave of Montesinos ? Well, well, we shall 
see.” 

And now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, 
and it was not without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his 
master took it for a real inn, and not for a castle as usual. 
The instant they entered Don Quixote asked the landlord after 
the man with the lances and halberds, and was told that he 
was in the stable seeing to his mule ; which was what Sancho 
and the cousin proceeded to do for their beasts, giving the best 
manger and the best place in the stable to Bocinante. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE 
DROLL ONE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH 
THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING APE. 

Don Quixote’s bread would not bake, as the common say- 
ing is,^ until he had heard and learned the curious things prom- 
ised by the man who carried the arms. He went to seek him 
where the innkeeper said he was, and having found him, bade 
him say now at any rate what he had to say in answer to the 
question he had asked him on the road. “ The tale of my 
wonders must be taken more leisurely and not standing,” said 
the man ; let me finish foddering my beast, good sir ; and then 
V 11 tell you things that will astonish you.” 

* A proverbial phrase, expressive of extreme impatience. 


174 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Don’t wait for that,” said Don Quixote ; “ I ’ll help you in 
everything,” and so he did, sifting the barley for him and 
cleaning out the manger; a degree of humility which made the 
other feel bound to tell him with a good grace what he had 
asked ; so seating himself on a bench, with Don Quixote beside 
him, and the cousin, the page, Sancho Panza, and the landlord, 
for a senate and an audience, he began his story in this way : 

You must know that in a village four leagues and a half 
from this inn, it so happened that one of the regidors,^ by the 
tricks and roguery of a servant girl of his (it ’s too long a tale 
to tell), lost an ass : and though he did all he possibly could to 
find it, it was all to no purpose. A fortnight might have gone 
by, so the story goes, since the ass had been missing, when, as 
the regidor who had lost it was standing in the plaza, another 
regidor of the same town said to him, ‘ Pay me for good news, 
gossip ; your ass has turned up.’ ^ That I will, and well, 
gossip,’ said the other ; ^ but tell us, where has he turned up ? ’ 
^ In the forest,’ said the finder ; ^ I saw him this morning with- 
out pack-saddle or harness of any sort, and so lean that it went 
to one’s heart to see him. I tried to drive him before me and 
bring him to you, but he is already so wild and shy that when 
I went near him, he made off into the thickest part of the for- 
est. If you have a mind that we two should go back and look 
for him, let me put up this she-ass at my house and I ’ll be 
back at once. ‘ You will be doing me a great kindness,’ said 
the owner of the ass, ^ and I ’ll try to pay it back in the same 
coin.’ It is with all these circumstances, and in the very same 
way I am telling it now, that those who know all about the 
matter tell the story. Well then, the two regidors set off on 
foot, arm in arm for the forest, and coming to the place where 
they hoped to find the ass they could not find him, nor was he 
to be seen anywhere about, search as they might. Seeing, 
then, that there was no sign of him, the regidor who had seen 
him said to the other, ‘ Look here, gossip ; a plan has occurred 
to me, by which, beyond a doubt, we shall manage to discover 
the animal, even if he is stowed away in the bowels of the 
earth, not to say the forest. Here it is. I can bray to perfec- 
tion, and if you can ever so little, the thing ’s as good as done.’ 
‘ Ever so little, did you say, gossip ? ’ said the other ; ^ by God, 
I ’ll not give in to anybody, not even to the asses themselves.’ 

: W^e ’ll soon see,’ said the second regidor, ^ for my plan is, that 
^ Officers who have charge of the expenditure of the municipality. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


11b 


you should go on one side of the forest, and I the other, so as 
to go all round about it ; and every now and then you will 
bray and I will bray ; and it can not be but that the ass will 
hear us, and answer us if he is in the forest.’ To which the 
owner of the ass replied, ‘ It ’s an excellent plan, I declare, 
gossip, and worthy of your great genius ; ’ and the two separ 
rating as agreed, it so fell out that they brayed almost at the 
same moment, and each, deceived by the braying of the other, 
ran to look, fancying the ass had turned up at last. When 
they came in sight of one another, said the loser, < Is it possible, 
gossip, that it was not my ass that brayed ? ’ ^No, it was I,’ 
said the other. ‘Well then, I can tell you, gossip,’ said the 
ass’s owner, ‘ that between you and an ass there ’s not an atom 
of difference as far as braying goes, for I never in all my life 
saw or heard anything more natural.’ ‘Those praises and 
compliments belong to you more justly than to me, gossip,’ said 
the inventor of the plan ; ‘ for, by the God that made me, you 
might give a couple of brays odds to the best and most finished 
brayer in the world ; the tone you have got is deep, your voice 
is well kept up as to time and pitch, and your finishing notes 
come thick and fast ; in fact, I own myself beaten, and yield 
the palm to you, and give in to you in this rare accomplish- 
ment.’ ‘ Well then,’ said the owner, ‘ I ’ll set a higher value 
on myself for the future, and consider that I know something, 
as I have an excellence of some sort ; for though I always 
thought I brayed well, I never supposed I came up to the 
pitch of perfection you say.’ ‘ And I say too,’ said the second, 
‘ that there are rare gifts going to loss in the world, and that 
they are ill bestowed upon those who don’t know how to make 
use of them.’ ‘ Ours,’ said the owner of the ass, ‘ unless it is 
in cases like what we have in hand, can not be of any service 
to us, and even in this God grant they may be of some use.’ 
So saying they separated, and took to their braying once 
more, but every instant they were deceiving one another, and 
coming to meet one another again, until they arranged by way 
of countersign, so as to know that it was they and not the ass, 
to give two brays, one after the other. In this way, doubling 
the brays at every step, they made the complete circuit of the 
forest, but the lost ass never gave them an answer or even the 
sign of one. How could the poor ill-starred brute have 
answered, when, in the thickest part of the forest, they found 
him devoured by wolves ? As soon as he saw him his owner 


176 


DON QUIXOTE, 


said, ^ I was wondering he did not answer, for if he was n’t 
dead he ’d have brayed when he heard us, or he ’d have been no 
ass ; but for the sake of having heard you bray to such perfec- 
tion, gossip, I count the trouble I have taken to look for him 
well bestowed, even though I have found him dead.’ ^ It ’s in 
a good hand, gossip,’ ^ said the other ; ‘ if the abbot sings well, 
the acolyte is not much behind him.’ ® So they returned dis- 
consolate and hoarse to their village, where they told their 
friends, neighbors, and acquaintances what had befallen them 
in their search for the ass, each crying up the other’s perfection 
in braying. The whole story came to be known and spread 
abroad through the villages of the neighborhood; and the 
devil, who never sleeps, with his love for sowing dissensions 
and scattering discord everywhere, blowing mischief about and 
making quarrels out of nothing, contrived to make the people 
of the other towns fall to braying whenever they saw any one 
from our village, as if to throw the braying of our regidors in 
our teeth. Then the boys took to it, which was the same thing 
for it as getting into the hands and mouths of all the devils of 
hell ; and braying spread from one town to another in such a 
way that the men of the braying town are as easy to be known 
as blacks are to be known from whites, and the unlucky joke 
has gone so far that several times the scoffed have come out in 
arms and in a body to do battle with the scoffers, and neither 
king nor rook, fear nor shame, can mend matters. To-morrow 
or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of the 
braying town, are going to take the field against another 
village two leagues away from ours, one of those that persecute 
us most ; and that we may turn out well prepared I have 
bought these lances and halberds you have seen. These are 
the curious things I told you I had to tell, and if you don’t 
think them so, I have got no others ; ” and with this the 
worthy fellow brought his story to a close. 

Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a 
man entirely clad in chamois leather, hose, breeches, and 
doublet, who said in a loud voice, Senor host, have you 
room ? Here ’s the divining ape and the show of the Release 
of Melisendra just coming.” 

Ods body ! ” said the landlord, why, it ’s Master Pedro ! 
We ’re in for a grand night ! ” 

* A polite way of saying, " after you,” when pressed to drink. 

*Prov. 1. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


177 


I forgot to mention that the said Master Pedro had his left 
eye and nearly half his cheek covered with a patch of green 
taffety, showing that something ailed all that side. 

Your worship is welcome, Master Pedro,” continued the 
landlord; but where are the ape and the show, for I don’t see 
them ? ” 

“ They are close at hand,” said he in the chamois leather, 
but I came on first to know if there was any room.” 

I ’d make the duke of Alva himself clear out to make room 
for Master Pedro,” said the landlord ; bring in the ape and 
the show ; there ’s company in the inn to-night that will pay to 
see that and the cleverness of the ape.” 

So be it by all means,” said the man with the patch ; I ’ll 
lower the price, and be well satisfied if I only pay my expenses ; 
and now I ’ll go back and hurry on the cart with the ape and 
the show ; ” and with this he went out of the inn. 

Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master 
Pedro was, and what was the show and what was the ape he 
had with him ; to which the landlord replied, This is a 
famous puppet-showman, who for some time past has been 
going about this Mancha de Aragon,^ exhibiting a show of the 
release of Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one. of -the 
best and best represented stories that have been seen in this 
part of the kingdom for many a year ; he has also with him an 
ape with the most extraordinary gift ever seen in an ape or 
imagined in a human being ; for if you ask him anything, he 
listens attentively to the question, and then jumps on his mas- 
ter’s shoulder, and pressing close to his ear tells him the 
answer, which Master Pedro then delivers. He says a great 
deal more about things past than about things to come ; and 
though he does not always hit the truth in every case, most 
times he is not far wrong, so that he makes us fancy he has 
got the devil in him. He gets two reals for every question if 
the ape answers ; I mean if his master answers for him after 
he has whispered into his ear ; and so it is believed that this 
same Master Pedro is very rich. He is a ^ gallant man ’ as 
they say in Italy, and good company, and leads the finest life 

^ The eastern part of La Mancha, adjoining the Guenca Mountains, 
and now part of the province of Cuenca. It had nothing to do with the 
kingdom of Aragon, as Cervantes seems to have supposed ; the name, so 
Fermin Caballero {Pericia Geografica de Cervantes) says, being derived 
from a hilT called Monte Aragon. 

VOL. II. - 12 


178 


DON QUIXOTE, 


in the world ; talks more than six, drinks more than a dozen, 
and all by his tongue, and his ape, and his show/’ 

Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the 
show and the ape — a big one, without a tail and with but- 
tocks as bare as felt, but not vicious-looking. As soon as Don 
Quixote saw him, he asked him, Can you tell me, sir fortune- 
teller, what fish do we catch, and how will it be with us ? See, 
here are my two reals,” and he bade Sancho give them to 
Master Pedro ; but he answered for the ape and said, Senor, 
this animal does not give any answer or information touching 
things that are to come ; of things past he knows something, 
and more or less of things present.” 

“ Gad,” ^ said Sancho, “ I would not give a farthing to be told 
what’s past with me, for who knows that better than I do 
myself ? And to pay for being told what I know would be 
mighty foolish. But as you know things present, here are my 
two reals, and tell me, most excellent sir ape, what is my wife 
Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she diverting hers'='"f 
with ? ” 

Master Pedro refused to take the money, saying, “ I will not 
receive payment in advance or until the service has been first 
rendered ; ” and then with his right hand he gave a couple of 
slaps on his left shoulder, and with one spring the ape perched 
himself upon it, and putting his mouth to his master’s ear 
began chattering his teeth rapidly ; and having kept this up 
as long as one would be saying a credo, with another spring he 
brought himself to the ground, and the same instant Master 
Pedro ran in great haste and fell upon his knees before Don 
Quixote, and embracing his legs exclaimed, These legs do I 
embrace as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O 
illustrious reviver of knight-errantry, so long consigned to oB 
livion ! 0 never yet duly extolled knight, Don Quixote of La 

Mancha, courage of the faint-hearted, prop of the tottering, 
arm of the fallen, staff and counsel of all who are unfortu- 
nate ! ” 

Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the 
cousin staggered, the page astonished, the man from the bray- 
ing town agape, the landlord in perplexity, and, in short, every 
one amazed at the words of the puppet-showman, who went on 
to say, “ And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the best squire and 

* Voto d Rus^ an obscure oath, but probably a Manchegan form of 
Voto d Dios. Rus is the name of a stream and castle near San Clemente. 


chapter XXV. 


179 


squire to the best knight in the world ! Be of good cheer, for 
thy good wife Teresa is well, and she is at this moment hack- 
ling a pound of flax ; and more by token she has at her left 
hand a jug with a broken spout that holds a good drop of 
wine, with which she solaces herself at her work.” 

“ That I can Avell believe,” said Sancho. She is a lucky 
one, and if it was not for her jealousy I would not change her 
for the giantess Andandona,^ who by my master’s account waa 
a very clever and worthy woman ; my Teresa is one of those 
that won’t let themselves want for anything, though their heirs 
may have to pay for it.” 

“ Now I declare,” said Don Quixote, he who reads much 
and travels much sees and knows a great deal. I say so be- 
cause what amount of persuasion could have persuaded me 
that there are apes in the world that can divine as I have seen 
now with my own eyes ? For I am that very Don Quixote of 
La Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though he has gone 
rather too far in my praise ; but whatever I may be, I thank 
Heaven that it has endowed me with a tender and compas- 
sionate heart, always disposed to do good to all and harm ta 
none.” 

If I had money,” said the page, I would ask senor ape 
what will happen me in the peregrination I am making.” 

To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don 
Quixote’s feet, replied, I have already said that this little 
beast gives no answer as to the future ; but if he f>id, not 
having money would be of no consequence, for to oblige Senor 
Don Quixote, here present, I would give up all the profits in 
the world. And now, because I have promised it, and to afford 
him pleasure, I will set up my show and offer entertainment 
to all who are in the inn, without any charge whatever.” As 
soon as he heard this, the landlord, delighted beyond measure, 
pointed out a place where the show might be flxed, which was 
done at once. 

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations 
of the ape, as he did not think it proper that an ape should 
divine anything, either past or future ; so while Master Pedro 
was arranging the show, he retired with Sancho into a corner 
of the stable, where, without being overheard by any one, he 
said to him, “ Look here, Sancho, I have been seriously think- 
ing over this ape’s extraordinary gift, and have come to the 
* A giantess in Amadis of Gaul, 


180 


DON QUIXOTE. 


conclusion that beyond doubt this Master Pedro, hir master, 
has a pact, tacit or express, with the devil.’’ 

“ If the packet is express from the devil,” said Sancho, it 
must be a very dirty packet no doubt ; but what good can it 
do Master Pedro to have such packets ? ” ^ 

Thou dost not understand me, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
“ I only mean he must have made some compact with the devil 
to infuse this power into the ape, that he may get his living, 
and after he has grown rich he will give him his soul, which 
is what the enemy of mankind wants ; this I am led to believe 
by observing that the ape only answers about things past or 
present, and the devil’s knowledge extends no further ; for the 
future he knows only by guesswork, and that not always ; for 
it is reserved for God alone to know the times and the seasons, 
and for him there is neither past nor future ; all is present. 
This being as it is, it is clear that this ape speaks by the spirit 
of the devil ; and I am astonished they have not denounced 
him to the Holy Office, and put him to the question, and forced 
it out of him by whose virtue it is that he divines ; because it 
is certain this ape is not an astrologer ; neither his master nor 
he sets up, or knows howto set up, those figures they call judi- 
ciary,^ which are now so common in Spain that there is not a 
jade, or page, or old cobbler, that will not undertake to set up 
a figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards from the ground, 
bringing to naught the marvellous truth of the science by their 
lies and ignorance. I know of a lady who asked one of these 
figure schemers whether her little lap-dog would be in pup and 
would breed, and how many and of what color the little pups 
would be. To which senor astrologer, after having set up his 
figure, made answer that the bitch would be in pup, and would 
drop three pups, one green, another bright red, and the third 
party-colored, provided she conceived between eleven and twelve 
either of the day or night, and on a Monday or Saturday ; but 
as things turned out, two days after this the bitch died of a 
surfeit, and senor planet-ruler had the credit all over the place 
of being a most profound astrologer, as most of these planet- 
rulers have.” 

Still,” said Sancho, I would be glad if your worship would 
make Master Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your 
worship in the cave of Montesinos is true ; for, begging your 

* In the original, Sancho’s mistake is patio for pacto. 

*i.e. belonging to judicial astrology. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


181 


worship’s pardon, I, for my part, take it to have been all flam 
and lies, or at any rate something you dreamt.” 

That may be,” replied Don Quixote ; however, I will do 
what you suggest ; though I have my own scruples about it.” 

At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, 
to tell him the show was now ready and to come and see it, 
for it was worth seeing. Don Quixote explained his wish to 
him, and begged him to ask his ape at once to tell him whether 
certain things which had happened to him in the cave of Mon- 
tesinos were dreams or realities, for to him they appeared to 
partake of both. Upon this Master Pedro, without answering, 
went back to fetch the ape, and, having placed it in front of 
Don Quixote and Sancho, said : See here, senor ape, this gentle- 
man wishes to know whether certain things which happened to 
him in the cave called the cave of Montesinos were false or true.” 
On his making the usual sign the ape mounted on his left 
shoulder and seemed to whisper in his ear, and Master Pedro 
said at once, The ape says that the things you saw or that 
happened to you in that cave are, part of them false, part true ; 
and that he only knows this and no more as regards this ques- 
tion ; but if your worship wishes to know more, on Friday next 
he will answer all that may be asked him, for his virtue is at 
present exhausted, and will not return to him till Friday, as he 
has said.” 

Did I not say, senor,” said Sancho, that I could not bring 
myself to believe that all your worship said about the advent- 
ures in the cave was true, or even the half of it ? ” 

^^The course of events will tell, Sancho,” replied Don 
Quixote ; time, that discloses all things, leaves nothing that 
it does not drag into the light of day, though it be buried in 
the bosom of the earth. But enough of that for the present ; 
let us go and see worthy Master Pedro’s show, for I am sure 
there must be something novel in it.” 

Something ! ” said Master Pedro ; this show of mine has 
sixty thousand novel things in it ; let me tell you, Senor Don 
Quixote, it is one of the best-worth-seeing things in the world 
this day ; but operibus credite et non verbis^ and now let ’s get 
to work, for it is growing late, and we have a great deal to do 
and to say and show.” 

Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the 
show was already put up and uncovered, set all around with 
lighted wax tapers which made it look splendid and bright. 


182 


DON QUIXOTE. 


When they came to it Master Pedro ensconced himself inside 
it, for it was he who had to work the puppets, and a boy, a 
servant of his, posted himself outside to act as showman and 
explain the mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand in his 
hand to point to the figures as they came out. And so, all who 
were in the inn being arranged in front of the show, some of 
them standing, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and cousin, 
accommodated with the best places, the interpreter began to 
say what he will hear or see who reads or hears the next 
chapter. 


CHAPTEE XXYI. 

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE 

PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN 

TRUTH RIGHT GOOD. 

All were silent, Tyrians and Trojans ; I mean all who 
were watching the show were hanging on the lips of the in- 
terpreter of its wonders, when drums and trumpets were heard 
to sound inside it and cannon to go off. The noise was soon 
over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and said, This 
true story which is here represented to your worships is taken 
word for word from the French chronicles and from the Span- 
ish ballads that are in everybody’s mouth, and in the mouths 
of the boys about the streets. Its subject is the release by 
Senor Don Gaiferos of his wife Melisendra,^ when a captive 
in Spain at the hands of the Moors in the city of Sansueha, 
for so they called then what is now called Saragossa; and 
there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the tables, 
just as they sing it — 

At the tables playing Don Gaiferos sits, 

For Melisendra is forgotten now.* 

* There is, however, no trace of the story of Gaiferos and Melisenda 
(which is the correct form of the name) in any French chronicle or 
romance. Master Pedro’s puppet-show follows closely the ballad — 

" Asentado esta Gaiferos 
En el palacio real,” 

which is in the three oldest Cancioneros de Romances^ and in Duran’s 
Romancero General., No. 377. 

* These lines are not a quotation from the old ballad, but from a more 
modern piece of verse in octaves, in the National Library at Madrid. 
” Tables ” was a gaihe something like tric-trac or backgammon ; not chess, 
as Dunlop supposes. It was played with dice. 


CHAPTER XXVI, 


183 


And that personage who appears there with a crown on his 
head and a sceptre in his hand is the emperor Charlemagne, 
the supposed father of Melisendra, who, angered to see his 
son-in-law’s inaction and unconcern, comes in to chide him ; 
and observe with what vehemence and energy he chides him, 
so that you would fancy he was going to give him half a dozen 
raps with his sceptre ; and indeed there are authors who say he 
did give them, and sound ones too ; and after having said a 
great deal to him about imperilling his honor by not affecting 
the release of his wife, he said, so the tale runs. 

Enough I’ve said, see to it now. 

Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don 
G-aiferos fuming ; and you see now how, in a burst of anger, 
he flings the table and the board far from him and calls in 
haste for his armor, and asks his cousin Don Eoland for the 
loan of his sword, Durindana,^ and how Don Eoland refuses 
to lend it, offering him his company in the difficult enterprise 
he is undertaking; but he, in his valor and anger, will not 
accept it, and says that he alone will suffice to rescue his wife, 
even though she were imprisoned deep in the centre of the 
earth, and with this he retires to arm himself and set out on 
his journey at once. Now let your worships turn your eyes 
to that tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one 
of the towers of the alcazar of Saragossa, now called the 
Aljaferia ; that lady who appears on that balcony dressed in 
Moorish fashion is the peerless Melisendra, for many a time 
she used to gaze from thence upon the road to France, and 
seek consolation in her captivity by thinking of Paris and her 
husband. Observe, too, a new incident which now occurs, 
such as, perhaps, never was seen. Do you not see that Moor, 
who silently and stealthily, with his Anger on his lip, ap- 
proaches Melisendra from behind ? Observe now how he 
prints a kiss upon her lips, and what a hurry she is in to spit, 
and wipe them with the white sleeve of her smock, and how 
she bewails herself, and tears hel- fair hair as though it were 
to blame for the wrong. Observe, too, that the stately Moor 
who is in that corridor is King Marsilio of Sansuena,^ who 

* In the Chanson de Roland^ " Durendal.” 

2 Marsilio is, of course, the Marsiles of the Chanson de Roland^ and, 
in spite of the company in which he appears, a historical personage, the 
name being a corruption of Omari filius, i.e. Abd el Malek Ibn Omar, 


184 


DON QUIXOTE, 


having seen the Moor’s insolence, at once orders him (though 
his kinsman and a great favorite of his) to be seized and given 
two hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the 
city according to custom, with criers going before him and 
officers of justice behind ; and here you see them come out to 
execute the sentence, although the offence has been scarcely 
committed ; for among the Moors there are no indictments nor 
remands as with us.” 

Here Don Quixote called out, Child, child, go straight on 
with your story, and don’t run into curves and slants, for to 
establish a fact clearly there is need of a greal deal of proof 
and confirmation ; ” and said Master Pedro from within, Boy, 
stick to your text and do as the gentleman bids you ; it ’s the 
best plan ; keep to your plain song, and don’t attempt har- 
monies, for they are apt to break down from being over fine.” 

I will,” said the boy, and he went on to say, “ This figure 
that you see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is 
Don Gaiferos himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the 
insult of the amorous Moor, and taking her stand on the balcony 
of the tower with a calmer and more tranquil countenance, has 
perceived without recognizing him ; and she addresses her hus- 
band, supposing him to be some traveller, and holds with him 
all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs — 

If you, sir knight, to France are bound, 

Oh ! for Gaiferos ask — 

which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust ; 
suffice it to observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and 
that by her joyful gestures Melisendra shows us she has recog- 
nized him ; and what is more, we now see she lowers herself 
from the balcony to place herself on the haunches of her good 
husband’s horse. But ah ! unhappy lady, the edge of her 
petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the balcony, and she 
is left hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground. But you 
see how compassionate Heaven sends aid in our sorest need ; 
Don Gaiferos advances, and without minding whether the rich 
petticoat is torn or not, he seizes her and by force brings her to 
the ground, and then with one jerk places her on the haunches 
of his horse, astraddle like a man, and bids her hold on tight 
and clasp her arms round his neck, crossing them on his breast- 

Wali of Saragossa at the time of Charlemagne’s invasion. In the ballad, 
however, he is called Almanzor. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


185 


so as not to fall, for the lady Melisendra was not used to that 
style of riding/ You see, too, how the neighing of the horse 
shows his satisfaction with the gallant and beautiful burden he 
bears in his lord and lady. You see how they wheel round and 
quit the city, and in joy and gladness take the road to Paris. 
Go in peace, 0 peerless pair of true lovers ! May you reach 
your longed-for fatherland in safety, and may fortune interpose 
no impediment to your prosperous journey ; may the eyes of 
your friends and kinsmen behold you enjoying in peace and 
tranquillity the remaining days of your life — and that they 
may be as many as those of Nestor ! 

Here Master Pedro called out again and said, Simplicity, 
boy ! None of your high flights ; all affectation is bad.” ^ 

The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, ‘‘ There 
was no want of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Meli- 
sendra come down and mount, and word was brought to King 
Marsilio, who at once gave orders to sound the alarm ; and 
see what a stir there is, and how the city is drowned with 
the sound of the bells pealing in all the towers of all the 
mosques.” 

“ Nay, nay,” said Don Quixote at this ; “ on that point of the 
bells Master Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use 
among the Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small 
trumpet somewhat like a clarion ; to ring bells this way in 
Sansuefia is unquestionably a great absurdity.” 

On hearing this. Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, 
Don’t look into trifles, Senor Don Quixote, or want to have 
things up to a pitch of perfection that is out of reach. Are 
there not almost every day a thousand comedies represented 
all round us full of thousands of inaccuracies and absurdities, 
and, for all that, they have a successful run, and are listened 
to not only with applause, but with admiration and all the rest 
of it ? Go on, boy, and don’t mind ; for so long as I All my 
pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies as there are 
motes in a sunbeam.” 

True enough,” said Don Quixote ; and the boy went on : 
See what a numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues 
from the city in pursuit of the two faithful lovers, what a 

* Gongora has a droll ballad on this subject — 

Desde Sansunea a Paris ’ — 

in which he expresses his sympathy with Melisendra’s sufferings during 
her ride. *Prov..3. 


186 


DON QUIXOTE, 


blowing of trumpets there is, what sounding of horns, what 
beating of drums and tabors ; I fear me they will overtake 
them and bring them back tied to the tail of their own horse, 
which would be a dreadful sight.’’ 

Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and 
hearing such a din, thought it would be right to aid the fugi- 
tives, and standing up he exclaimed in a loud voice, Never, 
while I live, will I permit foul play to be practised in my 
presence on such a famous knight and fearless lover as Don 
Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble, follow him not nor pursue 
him, or ye will have to reckon with me in battle ! ” and suiting 
the action to the word, he drew his sword, and with one bound 
placed himself close to the show, and with unexampled ra- 
pidity and fury began to shower down blows on the puppet 
troop of Moors, knocking over some, decapitating others, 
maiming this one and demolishing that ; and among many 
more he delivered one down-stroke which, if Master Pedro had 
not ducked, made himself small, and got out of the way, 
would have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made 
of almond-paste. Master Pedro kept shouting, Hold hard I 
Senor Don Quixote ! can’t you see they ’re not real Moors 
you ’re knocking down and killing and destroying, but only 
little pasteboard figures ! Look — sinner that I am ! — how 
you ’re wrecking and ruining all that I ’m worth ! ” But in 
spite of this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a con- 
tinuous rain of cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, 
and at length, in less than the space of two credos, he brought 
the whole show to the ground, with all its fittings and figures 
shivered and knocked to pieces. King Marsilio badly wounded, 
and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and head split 
in two. The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the 
ape fled to the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, the 
page was terrified, and even Sancho Panza himself was in 
mighty fear, for, as he swore after the storm was over, he had 
never seen his master in such a furious passion. 

The complete destruction of the show being thus accom- 
plished, Don Quixote became a little calmer, and said, “ I wish 
I had here before me now all those who do not or will not be- 
lieve how useful knights-errant are in the world j just think, if 
I had not been here present, what would have become of the 
brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra ! Depend upon 
it, by this time those dogs would . have overtaken them and 


CHAPTER XXVI . 


187 


inflicted some outrage upon them. So, then, long live knight- 
errantry beyond everything living on earth this day ! ” 

‘‘ Let it live, and welcome,’’ said Master Pedro at this in a 
feeble voice, and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I 
can say with King Don Rodrigo — 

Yesterday was I lord of Spain — 

To-day I’ve not a turret left 

That I may call mine own.* 

Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord 
of kings and emperors, with my stables filled with countless 
horses, and my trunks and bags with gay dresses unnumbered ; 
and now I find myself ruined and laid low, destitute and a beg- 
gar, and above all without my ape, for, by my faith, my teeth 
will have to sweat for it before I have him caught ; and all 
through the reckless fury of this sir knight here, who, they say, 
protects the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and does other 
charitable deeds ; but whose generous intentions have been 
found wanting in my case only, blessed and praised be the 
highest heavens ! Verily, knight of the rueful figure he must 
be to have disfigured mine.” 

Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro’s words, and 
said to him, Don’t weep and lament. Master Pedro ; you break 
my heart ; let me tell you my master, Don Quixote, is so cath- 
olic and scrupulous a Christian that, if he can make out that he 
has done you any wrong, he will own it, and be willing to pay 
for it and make it good, and something over and above.” 

“ Only let Senor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the 
work he has destroyed,” said Master Pedro, and I would be 
content, and his worship would ease his conscience, for he can 
not be saved who keeps what is another’s against the owner’s 
will, and makes no restitution.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote ; but at present I am not 
aware that I have got anything of yours, Master Pedro.” 

What ! ” returned Master Pedro ; and these relics lying 
here on the bare hard ground — what scattered and shattered 

* From the ballad on the rout of King Roderick’s army at the battle of 
the Guadalete — 

" Las huestes del Rey Rodrigo 
De<«mayaban y huian.” 

Cancionero de Romances^ s.a. Antwerp. 

Duran, Romanctro General No. 699. 


188 


DON QUIXOTE. 


tliem but the invincible strength of that mighty arm ? And 
whose were the bodies they belonged to but mine ? And what 
did I get my living by but them ? 

Now am I fully convinced/’ said Don Quixote, of what I 
had many a time before believed; that the enchanters who 
persecute me do nothing more than put figures like these 
before my eyes, and then change and turn them into what they 
please. In truth and earnest, I assure you gentlemen who now 
hear me, that to me everything that has taken place here 
seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was Melisendra, 
Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and Charle- 
magne Charlemagne. That was why my anger was roused ; 
and to be faithful to my calling as a knight-errant I sought 
to give aid and protection to those who fled, and with this good 
intention I did what you have seen. If the result has been 
the opposite of what I intended, it is no fault of mine, but of 
those wicked beings that persecute me ; but, for all that, I 
am willing to condemn myself in costs for this error of mine, 
though it did not proceed from malice ; let Master Pedro see 
what he wants for the spoiled figures, for I agree to pay it 
at once in good and current money of Castile.” 

Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, “ I expected no less 
of the rare Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La 
Mancha, true helper and protector of all destitute and needy 
vagabonds ; master landlord here and the great Sancho Panza 
shall be the arbitrators and appraisers between your worship 
and me of what these dilapidated figures are worth or may be 
worth.” 

The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro 
picked up from the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with 
his head off, and said, Here you see how impossible it is to 
restore this king to his former state, so I think, saving your 
better judgments, that for his death, decease, and demise, four 
reals and a half may be given me.” 

Proceed,” said Don Quixote. 

“ Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom,” continued 
Master Pedro, taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, it 
would not be much if I were to ask five reals and a quarter.” 

It’ s not little,” said Sancho. 

Nor is it much,” said the landlord ; “ make it even, and say 
five reals.” 

Let him have the whole five and a quarter,” said Don 


CHAPTER XXVL 


189 


Quixote ; “ for the sum total of this notable disaster does not 
stand on a quarter more or less ; and make an end of it 
quickly, Master Pedro, for it ’s getting on to supper-time, and 
I have some hints of hunger.” 

For this figure,” said Master Pedro, “ that is without a 
nose, and wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and 
1 am reasonable in my charge, two reals and twelve mara- 
vedis.” 

The very devil must be in it,” said Don Quixote, if Meli- 
sendra and her husband are not by this time at least on the 
French border, for the horse they rode on seemed to me to fly 
rather than gallop ; so you need n’t try to sell me the cat for 
the hare,^ showing me here a noseless Melisendra when she is 
now, may be, enjoying herself at her ease with her husband 
in France. God help every one to his own. Master Pedro, and 
let us all proceed fairly and honestly ; and now go on.” 

Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to 
wander, and return to his original fancy, was not disposed to 
let him escape, so he said to him, This cannot be Melisendra, 
but must be one of the damsels that waited on her ; so if I ’m 
given sixty maravedis for her, I ’ll be content and sufficiently 
paid.” 

And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more 
smashed figures, which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted 
them to the satisfaction of both parties, came to forty reals and 
three quarters ; and over and above this sum, which Sancho at 
once disbursed. Master Pedro asked for two reals for his trouble 
in catching the ape. 

“ Let him have them, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; not to 
catch the ape, but to get drunk ; ^ and two hundred would I 
give this minute for the good news, to any one who could tell 
me positively, that the lady Dona Melisendra and Senor Don 
Gaiferos were now in France and with their own people.” 

No one could tell us that better than my ape,” said Master 
Pedro, but there ’s no devil that could catch him now ; I sus- 
pect, however, that affection and hunger will drive him to 
come looking for me to-night ; but to-morrow will soon be here 
and we shall see.” 

In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped 

* Prov. 104. 

* The joke here is untranslatable. Don Quixote says " not to catch the 
ape, but the she-ape ; ” pillar la mona being a slang phrase for ” to get 
drunk.” 


190 


DON QUIXOTE. 


in peace and good fellowship at Don Quixote’s expense, for he 
was the height of generosity. Before it was daylight the man 
with the lances and halberds took his departure, and soon after 
daybreak the cousin and the page came to bid Don Quixote 
farewell, the former returning home, the latter resuming his 
journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him 
twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage in any 
more palaver with Don Quixote, whom he knew right well ; so 
he rose before the sun, and having got together the remains of 
his show and caught his ape, he too went off to seek his ad- 
ventures. The landlord, who did not know Don Quixote, was 
as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity. 
To conclude, Sancho, by his master’s orders, paid him very 
liberally, and taking leave of him they quitted the inn at about 
eight in the morning and took to the road, where we will leave 
them to pursue their journey, for this is necessary in order to 
allow certain other matters to be set forth, which are required 
to clear up this famous history. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, 
TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE 
BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE 
WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED. 

CiD Hamet, the chronicler of this great history, begins this 
chapter with these words, ‘‘ I swear as a catholic Christian ; ” 
with regard to which his translator says that Cid Hamet’s 
swearing as a catholic Christian, he being — as no doubt he 
was — a Moor, only meant that, just as a catholic Christian 
taking an oath swears, or ought to swear, what is true, and tell 
the truth in what he avers, so he was telling the truth, as 
much as if he swore as a catholic Christian, in all he chose to 
write about Don Quixote, especially in declaring who Master 
Pedro was and what was the divining ape that astonished all 
the villages with his divinations. He says, then, that he who 
has read the First Part of this history will remember well 
enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with other galley 
slaves, Don Quixote set free in the Sierra Morena ; a kindness 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


191 


for which he afterwards got poor thanks and worse payment 
from that evil-minded, ill-conditioned set. This Gines de Pasa- 
monte — Don Ginesillo de Paropilla, Don Quixote called him 
— it was that stole Dapple from Sancho Panza ; which, because 
by the fault of the printers neither the how nor the when was 
stated in the First Part, has been a puzzle to a good many people, 
who attribute to the bad memory of the author what was the 
error of the press.^ In fact, however, Gines stole him while 
Sancho Panza was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and 
device that Brunello had recourse to when he stole Sacripante’s 
horse from between his legs at the siege of Albracca ; and, as has 
been told, Sancho afterwards recovered him. This Gines, then, 
afraid of being caught by the officers of justice, who were look- 
ing for him to punish him for his numberless rascalities and 
offences (which were so many and so great that he himself 
wrote a big book giving an account of them), resolved to shift 
his quarters into the kingdom of Aragon,^ and cover up his left 
eye, and take up the trade of a puppet-showman ; for this, as 
well as juggling, he knew how to practise to perfection. From 
some released Christians returning from Barbary, it so hap- 
pened, he bought the ape, which he taught to mount upon his 
shoulder on his making a certain sign, and to whisper, or seem 
to do so, in his ear. Thus prepared, before entering any village 
whither he was bound with his show and his ape, he used to 
inform himself at the nearest village, or from the most likely 
person he could find, as to what particular things had happened 
there, and to whom ; and bearing them well in mind, the first 
thing he did was to exhibit his show, sometimes one story, 
sometimes another, but all lively, amusing, and familiar. As 
soon as the exhibition was over he brought forward the accom- 
plishments of his ape, assuring the public that he divined all 
the past and the present, but as to the future he had no skill. 
For each question answered he asked two reals, and for some 
he made a reduction, just as he happened to feel the pulse of 
the questioners ; and when now and then he came to houses 
where things that he knew of had happened to the people liv- 
ing there, even if they did not ask him a question, not car- 
ing to pay for it, he would make the sign to the ape and then 

^ Here we have an additional proof that Cervantes did not supply the 
correction in the second edition, vol. ii. chap, xxiii., and was not even 
aware that it had been made. 

•From this it would seem that Cervantes was under the impressiour 
that La Mancha de Aragon belonged to the kingdom of Aragon. 


192 


DON QUIXOTE. 


declare that it had said so and so, which fitted the case exactly. 
In this way he acquired a prodigious name and all ran after 
him ; on other occasions, being very crafty, he would answer in 
such a way that the answers suited the questions ; and as no 
one cross-questioned him or pressed him to tell how his ape 
divined, he made fools of them all and filled his pouch. The 
instant he entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, 
and with that knowledge it was easy for him to astonish them 
and all who were there ; but it would have cost him dear had 
Don Quixote brought down his hand a little lower when he cut 
off King Marsilio’s head and destroyed all his horsemen, as 
related in the preceding chapter. 

So much for Master Pedro and his ape ; and now to return 
to Don Quixote of La Mancha, — after he had left the inn he 
determined to visit, first of all, the banks of the Ebro and that 
neighborhood, before entering the city of Saragossa, for the 
ample time there was still to spare before the jousts left him 
enough for all. With this object in view he followed the road 
and travelled along it for two days, without meeting any advent- 
ure worth committing to writing, until on the third day, as he 
was ascending a hill, he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets, 
and musket-shots. At first he imagined some regiment of 
soldiers was passing that way, and to see them he sjjurred 
Bocinante and mounted the hill. On reaching the top he saw 
at the foot of it over two hundred men, as it seemed to him, 
armed with weapons of various sorts, lances, cross-bows, 
partisans, halberds, and pikes, and a few muskets and a great 
many bucklers. He descended the slope and approached the 
band near enough to see distinctly the flags, make out the col- 
ors and distinguish the devices they bore, especially one on a 
standard or ensign of white satin, on which there was painted 
in a very life-like style an ass like a little Sard,^ with its head 
up, its mouth open and its tongue out, as if it were in the act 
and attitude of braying ; and round it were inscribed in large 
characters these two lines — 

They did not bray in vain, 

Our alcaldes twain. 

From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must 
be from the braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining 
to him what was written on the standard. At the same time he 
* i.e. a Sardinian pony, just as we say " a Shetland.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


193 


observed that the man who had told them about the matter was 
wrong in saying that the two who brayed were regidors, for 
according to the lines on the standard they were alcaldes. To 
which Sancho replied, “ Senor, there ’s nothing to stick at in 
that, for maybe the regidors who brayed then came to be alcaldes 
of their town afterwards, and so they may go by both titles ; 
moreover, it has nothing to do with the truth of the story 
whether the brayers were alcaldes or regidors, provided at any 
rate they did bray ; for an alcalde is just as likely to bray as a 
regidor.’’ They perceived, in short, clearly that the town which 
had been twitted had turned out to do battle with some other 
that had jeered it more than was fair or neighborly. 

Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho’s 
uneasiness, for he never relished mixing himself up in expedi- 
tions of that sort. The members of the troop received him into 
the midst of them, taking him to be some one who was on their 
side. Don Quixote, putting up his visor, advanced with an easy 
bearing and demeanor to the standard with the ass, and all the 
chief men of the army gathered round him to look at him, star- 
ing at him with the usual amazement that everybody felt on 
seeing him for the first time. Don Quixote, seeing them exam- 
ining him so attentively, and that none of them spoke to him 
or put any question to him, determined to take advantage of 
their silence ; so, breaking his own, he lifted up his voice and 
said, Worthy sirs, I entreat you* as earnestly as I can not to in- 
terrupt an argument I wish to address to you, until you find 
it displeases or wearies you; and if that come to pass, on the 
slightest hint you give me I will put a seal upon my lips and a 
gag upon my tongue.’^ 

They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen 
to him willingly. 

With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, I, sirs, 
am a knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose 
profession is to protect those who require protection, and give 
help to such as stand in need of it. Some days ago I became 
acquainted with your misfortune and the cause which impels 
you to take up arms again and again to revenge yourselves upon 
your enemies ; and having many times thought over your busi- 
ness in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of combat, 
you are mistaken in holding yourselves insulted ; for a private 
individual can not insult an entire community ; unless it be by 
defying it collectively as a traitor, because he can not tell who 
voL. ir. — 13 


194 


DON QUIXOTE. 


in particular is guilty of the treason for which he defies it. Of 
this we have an example in Don Diego Ordonez de Lara, who 
defied the whole town of Zamora, because he did not know 
that Vellido Dolfos alone had committed the treachery of slay- 
ing his King ; and therefore he defied them all, and the ven- 
geance and the reply concerned all ; though, to be sure, Senor 
Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very much beyond the 
limits of a defiance ; for he had no occasion to defy the dead, 
or the waters, or the fishes,^ or those yet unborn, and all the 
rest of it as set forth ; but let that pass, for when anger breaks 
out there ’s no father, governor, or bridle to check the tongue. 
The case being, then, that no one person can insult a kingdom, 
province, city, state, or entire community, it is clear there is 
no reason for going out to avenge the defiance of such an 
insult, inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it would be if 
the people of the clock town were to be at loggerheads every 
moment with every one who called them by that name, — or 
the Cazoleros, Berengeneros, Ballenatos, Jaboneros,^ or the 
bearers of all the other names and titles that are always in the 
mouths of the boys and common people ! It would be a nice 
business indeed if all these illustrious cities were to take huff 
and revenge themselves and go about perpetually making trom- 
bones ^ of their swords in every petty quarrel ! Ko, no; God 
forbid ! There are four things for which sensible men and 
well-ordered States ought to take up arms, draw their swords, 
and risk their persons, lives, and properties. The first is to 
defend the Catholic faith; the second, to defend one’s life, 
which is in accordance with natural and divine law ; the third, 
in defence of one’s honor, family, and property; the fourth, in 
the service of one’s King in a just war ; and if to these we 
choose to add a fifth (which may be included in the second), 

‘ K. the ballad, "Yacabalga Diego Ordonez.” — Cane, de Romances^ 
Antwerp, 1550. Duran, Rom. Gen. No. 791. 

^ The Cazoleros (or, more properly, Cazalleros) were the people of 
Valladolid, so called because of their townsman, Cazalla, burned as a 
Lutheran in 1559 ; the Berengeneros were the Toledans, herengenas., or 
egg-plants, being grown in large quantities in the neighborhood; the in- 
habitants of Madrid were nicknamed the Ballenatos, i.e. the whalemen, 
from a story that they took a mule’s pack-saddle, floating down the 
Manzanares in a flood, for a whale. Who the people of the clock town, 
or the Jaboneros — the soapmen — were, is uncertain. 

^ [ Hechas las espadas sacabuches : sacabuche means literally crop- or 
stomach-drawer. To an English reader ” sackbuts ” or " trombones ” makes 
nonsense ; but " stomach-rippers ” would also miss a humorous point. — 
N. H. D.] 


CHAPTER XXV II , 


195 


in defence of one’s country. To these five, as it were capital 
causes, there may be added some others that may be just and 
reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms ; but to take 
them up for trifles and things to laugh at and be amused by 
rather than offended, looks as though he who did so was al- 
together wanting in common sense. Moreover, to take an 
unjust revenge (and there cannot be any just one) is directly 
opposed to the sacred law that we acknowledge, wherein we 
are commanded to do good to our enemies and to love them 
that hate us ; a command which, though it seems somewhat 
difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them less of 
God than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit ; 
for J esus Christ, God and true man, who never lied, and could 
not and can not lie, said, as our law-giver, that his yoke was 
easy and his burden light ; he would not, therefore, have laid 
any command upon us that it was impossible to obey. Thus, 
sirs, you are bound to keep quiet by human and divine law.” 

The devil take me,” said Sancho to himself at this, but 
this master of mine is a tologian ; or, if not, faith he ’s as like 
one as one egg is like another.” 

Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that 
silence was still preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, 
and would have done so had not Sancho interposed with his 
smartness ; for he, seeing his master pause, took the lead, say- 
ing, My lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, who once was 
called The Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but now is called 
the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman of great discretion who 
knows Latin and his mother tongue like a bachelor, and in every- 
thing that he deals with or advises proceeds like a good soldier, 
and has all the laws and ordinances of what they call combat 
at his fingers’ ends ; so you have nothing to do but to let your- 
selves be guided by what he says, and on my head be it if it is 
wrong. Besides which, you have been told that it is folly to 
take offence at merely hearing a bray. I remember when I 
was a boy I brayed as often as I had a fancy, without any one 
hindering me, and so elegantly and naturally that when I brayed 
all the asses in the town would bray ; but I was none the less for 
that the son of my parents, who were greatly respected ; and 
though I was envied because of the gift by more than one of 
the high and mighty ones of the town, I did not care two far- 
things for it ; and that you may see I am telling the truth, wait 
a bit and listen, for this art, like swimming, once learnt is never 


196 


DON QUIXOTE, 


forgotten ; ’’ and then, taking hold of his nose, he began to bray 
so vigorously that all the valleys around rang again. 

One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was 
mocking them, lifted up a long staff he had in his hand, and 
smote him such a blow with it that Sancho dropped helpless to 
the ground. Don Quixote, seeing him so roughly handled, at- 
tacked the man who had struck him lance in hand, but so many 
thrust themselves between them that he could not avenge him. 
Far from it, finding a shower of stones rained upon him, and 
crossbows and muskets unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled 
Eocinante round and, as fast as his best gallop could take him, 
fled from the midst of them, commending himself to God with 
all his heart to deliver him out of this peril, in dread every step 
of some ball coming in at his back and coming out at his breast, 
and every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone 
from him. The members of the band, however, were satisfied 
with seeing him take to flight, and did not fire on him. They 
put up Sancho, scarcely restored to his senses, on his ass, and 
let him go after his master ; not that he was sufficiently in his 
wits to guide the beast, but Dapple followed the footsteps of 
Eocinante, from whom he could not remain a moment separated. 
Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and seeing 
Sancho coming, waited for him, as he perceived that no one 
followed him. The men of the troop stood their ground till 
night, and as the enemy did not come out to battle, they returned 
to their town in high spirits and exulting ; and had they been 
aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have 
erected a trophy on the spot. 


CHAPTEE XXVIII. 

OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM 
WILL KNOW, IF HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION. 

When the brave man flees, treachery is manifest, and it is 
for wise men to reserve themselves for better occasions. This 
proved to be the case with Don Quixote, who, giving way be- 
fore the fury of the townsfolk and the hostile intentions of the 
angry troop, took to flight and, without a thought of Sancho or 
the danger in which he was leaving him, retreated to such a 


CHAPTER XXVI IL 


197 


distance as lie thought made him safe. Sancho, lying across 
his ass, followed him, as has been said, and at length came up, 
having by this time recovered his senses, and on joining him 
let himself drop off Dapple at Rocinante’s feet, sore, bruised, 
and belabored. Don Quixote dismounted to examine his 
wounds, but finding him whole from head to foot, he said to 
him, angrily enough, In an evil hour didst thou take to bray- 
ing, Sancho ! Where hast thou learned that it is well done to 
mention the rope in the house of the man that has been 
hanged ? ^ To the music of brays what harmonies couldst 
thou expect to get but cudgels ? Give thanks to God, Sancho, 
that they signed the cross on thee just now with a stick, and 
did not mark thee 'per signum crucis with a cutlass.” 

I ^m not equal to answering,” said Sancho, for I feel as 
if I was speaking through my shoulders ; let us mount and get 
away from this ; I fil keep from braying, but not from saying 
tihat knights-errant fly and leave their good squires to be 
pounded like privet, or made meal of at the hands of their 
enemies.” 

He does not fly who retires,” returned Don Quixote ; for 
I would have thee know, Sancho, that the valor which is not 
based upon a foundation of prudence is called rashness, and 
the exploits of the rash men are to be attributed rather to good 
fortune than to courage ; and so I own that I retiied, but not 
that I fled ; and therein I have followed the example of many 
valiant men who have reserved themselves for better times ; the 
histories are full of instances of this, but as it would not be 
any good to thee or pleasure to me, I will not recount them to 
thee now.” 

Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don 
Quixote, who then himself mounted Eocinante, and at a lei- 
surely pace they proceeded to take shelter in a grove which was 
in sight about a quarter of a league off. Every now and then 
Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and dismal groans, and on Don 
Quixote asking him what caused such acute suffering, he re- 
plied that, from the end of his backbone up to the nape of 
his neck, he was so sore that it nearly drove him out of his 
senses. 

The cause of that soreness,” said Don Quixote, will be, no 
doubt, that the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very 
long one, it caught thee all down the back, where all the parts 

*Prov. 219. 


198 


DON QUIXOTE. 


that are sore are situated, and had it reached any farther thou 
wouldst be sorer still/’ 

By God,” said Sancho, your worship has relieved me of 
a great doubt, and cleared up the point for me in elegant style ! 
Body o’ me ! is the cause of my soreness such a mystery that 
there ’s any need to tell me I am sore everywhere the staff hit 
me ? If it was my ankles that pained me there might be 
something in going divining why they did, but it is not much 
to divine that I ’m sore where they thrashed me. By my faith, 
master mine, the ills of others hang by a hair ; * every day I am 
discovering more and more how little I have to hope for from 
keeping company with your worship ; for if this time you have 
allowed me to be drubbed, the next time, or a hundred times 
more, we ’ll have the blanketings of the other day over again, 
and all the other pranks which, if they have fallen on my 
shoulders now, will be thrown in my teeth by-and-by. I would 
do a great deal better (if I was not an ignorant brute that will 
never do any good all my life), I would do a great deal better, 
I say, to go home to my wife and children and support them 
and bring them up on what God may please to give me, instead 
of following your worship along roads that lead nowhere and 
paths that are none at all, with little to drink and less to eat. 
And then when it comes to sleeping ! Measure out seven feet 
on the earth, brother squire, and if that ’s not enough for you, 
take as many more, for you may have it all your own way and 
stretch yourself to your heart’s content. Oh that I could see 
burnt and turned to ashes the first man that meddled with 
knight-errantry, or at any rate the first who chose to be squire 
to such fools as all the knights-errant of past times must have 
been ! Of those of the present day I say nothing, because, as 
your worship is one of them, I respect them, and because I 
know your worship knows a point more than the devil in all 
you say and think.” 

I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote, that now that you are talking on without any one to 
stop you, you don’t feel a pain in your whole body. Talk away, 
my son, say whatever comes into your head or mouth, for so 
long as you feel no pain, the irritation your impertinences give 
me will be a pleasure to me ; and if you are so anxious to go 
home to your wife and children, God forbid that I should pre- 
vent you ; you have money of mine ; see how long it is since 
‘ Prov. 132. 


CHAPTER XXV I II, 


199 


we left our village this third time, ’ and how much you can 
and ought to earn every month, and pay yourself out of your 
own hand/^ 

“ When I worked for Tome Carrasco, the father of the bache- 
lor Samson Carrasco that your worship knows,” replied Sancho, 

I used to earn two ducats a month besides my food ; I can’t 
tell what I can earn with your worship, though I know a 
knight-errant’s squire has harder times of it than he who works 
for a fp.rmer ; for after all, we who work for farmers, how^ever 
much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we have our olla 
supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since I 
have been in your worship’s service, if it was n’t the short time 
we were in Don Diego de Miranda’s house, and the feast I had 
with the skimmings I took off Camacho’s pots, and what I ate, 
drank, and slept in Basilio’s house ; all the rest of the time I 
have been sleeping on the hard ground under the open sky, 
exposed to what they call the inclemencies of heaven, keeping 
life in me with scraps of cheese and crusts of bread, and drink- 
ing water either from the brooks or from the springs we come 
to on these by-paths we travel.” 

I own, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, that all thou sayest is 
true ; how much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and 
above what Tome Carrasco gave thee ? ” 

I think,” said Sancho, that if your worship was to add on 
two reals a month I ’d consider myself well paid ; that is, as far 
as the wages of my labor go ; but to make up to me for your 
worship’s pledge and promise to give me the government of an 
island, it would be fair to add six reals more, making thirty in 
all.” 

Very good,” said Don Quixote ; it is twenty-five days since 
we left our village, so reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages 
you have made out for yourself, and see how much I owe you 
in proportion, and pay yourself, as I said before, out of your 
own hand.” 

0 body o’ me ! ” said Sancho, but your worship is very 
much out in that reckoning ; for when it comes to the promise 
of the island we must count from the day your worship prom- 
ised it to me to this present hour we are at now.” 

Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you ? ” 
said Don Quixote. 

* Don Quixote forgets that Sailcho was not with him the first time he 
left home. 


200 


DON QUIXOTE. 


If I remember rightly,” said Sancho, it must be over 
twenty years, three days more or less.” 

Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and be- 
gan to laugh heartily, and said he, “ Why, I have not been wan- 
dering, either in the Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our 
sallies, but barely two months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is 
twenty years since I promised thee the island. I believe now 
thou wouldst have all the money thou hast of mine go in 
thy wages. If so, and if that be thy pleasure, I give it to thee 
now, once and for all, and much good may it do thee, for sc 
long as I see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing squire, I ’ll 
be glad to be left a pauper without a rap. But tell me, thou 
perverter of the squirely rules of knight-errantry, where hast 
thou ever seen or read that any knight-errant’s squire made 
terms with his lord, ‘ you must give me so much a month for 
serving you ’ ? Plunge, 0 scoundrel, rogue, monster — for 
such I take thee to be — plunge, I say, into the mare magnum of 
their histories ; and if thou shalt find that any squire ever said 
or thought what thou hast said now, I will let thee nail it on 
my forehead, and give me, over and above, four sound slaps in 
the face. Turn the rein, or the halter, of thy Dapple, and 
begone home ; for one single step farther thou shalt not make 
in my company. 0 bread thanklessly received ! 0 promises 

ill-bestowed ! O man more beast than human being ! Now, 
when I was about to raise thee to such a position, that, in spite 
of thy wife, they would call thee ^ my lord,’ thou art leaving 
me ? Thou art going now when I had a firm and fixed inten- 
tion of making thee lord of the best island in the world ? 
Well, as thou thyself hast said before now, honey is not for the 
mouth of the ass.^ Ass thou art, ass thou wilt be, and ass thou 
wilt end when the course of thy life is run ; for I know it will 
come to its close before thou dost perceive or discern that thou 
art a beast.” 

Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving 
him his rating, and was so touched by remorse that the tears 
came to his eyes, and in a piteous and broken voice he said to 
him, Master mine, I confess that, to be a complete ass, all I 
want is a tail ; if your worship will only fix one on to me, I ’ll 
look on it as rightly placed, and I ’ll serve you as an ass all 
the remaining days of my life. Forgive me and have pity on 
my folly, and remember I know but little, and, if I talk much, 
* Prov. 138. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


it ’s more from infirmity than malice ; but he who sins and 
mends commends himself to^ God.” ^ 

I should have been surprised, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
if thou hadst not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy 
speech. Well, well, I forgive thee, provided thou dost mend 
and not show thyself in future so fond of thine own interest, 
but try to be of good cheer and take heart, and encourage thy- 
self to look forward to the fulfilment of my promises, which, 
by being delayed, does not become impossible.” 

Sancho said he would do so, and keep up his heart as best 
he could. They then entered the grove, and Don Quixote 
settled himself at the foot of an elm, and Sancho at that of 
a beech, for trees of this kind and others like them always 
have feet but no hands. Sancho passed the night in pain, 
for with the evening dews the blow of the staff made itself 
felt all the more. Don Quixote passed it in his never-failing 
meditations ; but, for all that, they had some winks of sleep, 
and with the appearance of daylight they pursued their jour- 
ney in quest of the banks of the famous Ebro, where that 
befell them which will be told in the following chapter. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK. 

By stages as already described or left undescribed, two days 
after quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the 
river Ebro,^ and the sight of it was a great delight to Don 

^ Prov. 83. 

® Cervantes allows them but five days in all for this journey. The 
nearest and most accessible point of the Ebro would be at the junction of 
the river Jalon, a few leagues above Saragossa, and this, in a straight line 
from the inn near the cave of Montesinos, would be something over two 
hundred miles distant. The most direct and best road would be by Bel- 
monte and Cuenca, and thence across the Albarracin mountains to Cala- 
mocha, Daroca, and Calatayud, which would be, at least, one-third more ; 
a distance that, making due allowance for the difficulties of the country, 
Don Quixote and Sancho, at their rate of travelling, could not have accom- 
plished in thrice the time Cervantes allows. Having myself made the 
journey on foot, I can speak with some confidence on the point. But Cer- 
vantes clearly had no personal knowledge of the region between La Mancha 
and Saragossa. He would never have allowed Don Quixote to traverse 


202 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Quixote as he contemplated and gazed upon the charms of itf 
banks, the clearness of its stream, the gentleness of its current 
and the abundance of its crystal waters ; and the pleasant view 
revived a thousand tender thoughts in his mind. Above all, he 
dwelt upon what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos ; foj 
though Master Pedro’s ape had told him that of those 'things 
part was true, part false, he clung more to their truth than 
to their falsehood, the very reverse of Sancho, who held them 
all to be downright lies. 

As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small 
boat, without oars or any other gear, that lay at the water’s 
edge tied to the stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don 
Quixote looked all round, and seeing nobody, at once, without 
more ado, dismounted from Eocinante and bade Sancho get down 
from Dapple and tie both beasts securely to the trunk of a poplar 
or willow that stood there. Sancho asked him the reason o^ 
this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote made answer. 

Thou must know, Sancho, that this bark here is plainly, and 
without the possibility of any alternative, calling and inviting 
me to enter it, and in it go to give aid to some knight or other 
person of distinction in need of it, who is no doubt in some 
sore strait; for this is the way of the books of chivalry 
and of the enchanters who figure and speak in them. When 
a knight is involved in some difficulty from which he can 
not be delivered save by the hand of another knight, though 
they may be at a distance of two or three thousand leagues oi 
more one from the other, they either take him up on a cloud, 
or they provide a bark for him to get into, and in less than the 
twinkling of an eye they carry him where they will and where 
his help is required ; and so, Sancho, this bark is placed here 
for the same purpose ; this is as true as that it is now day, and 
ere this one passes tie Dapple and Eocinante together, and 
then in God’s hand be it to guide us ; for I would not hold back 
from embarking, though bare-footed friars were to beg me.” 

“ As that ’s the case,” said Sancho, “ and your worship chooses 
to give in to these — I don’t know if I may call them absurdi- 
ties — at every turn, there ’s nothing for it but to obey and bow 
the head, bearing in mind the problem, ^ Do as thy master bids 
thee, and sit down to table with him ; ’ ^ but for all that, for the 

the Cuenca mountains, and the pine woods of the Albarracin, without an 
adventure, had he been aware of the natural advantages of the country. 

*Prov. 12. 



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CHAPTER XXIX. 


203 


sake of easing my conscience, I want to warn your worship that it 
is my opinion this bark is no enchanted one, but belongs to some 
of the fishermen of the river, for they catch the best shad in the 
world here.’’ 

As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the 
care and protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his 
heart. Don Quixote bade him not be uneasy about deserting 
the animals, for he who would carry themselves over such lon- 
ginquous roads and regions would take care to feed them. 

I don’t understand that logiquous,” said Sancho, nor have 
I ever heard the word all the days of my life.” 

Longinquous,” replied Don Quixote, means far off ; but 
it is no wonder thou dost not understand it, for thou art not 
bound to know Latin, like some who pretend to know it and 
don’t.” 

‘^Now they are tied,” said Sancho: what are we to do 
next ? ” 

What ? ” said Don Quixote, cross ourselves and weigh 
anchor; I mean, embark and cut the moorings by which the 
bark is held ; ” and jumping into it, followed by Sancho, he cut 
the rope, and the bark began to drift away slowly from the bank. 
But when Sancho saw himself somewhere about two yards out 
in the river, he began to tremble and give himself up for lost ; 
but nothing distressed him more than hearing Dapple bray and 
seeing Kocinante struggling to get loose, and said he to his 
master, Dapple is braying in grief at our leaving him, and 
Eocinante is trying to escape and plunge in after us. 0 dear 
friends, peace be with you, and may this madness that is tak- 
ing us away from you, turned into sober sense, bring us back to 
you.” And with this he fell weeping so bitterly, that Don 
Quixote said to him, sharply and angrily, “ What art thou afraid 
of, cowardly creature ? What art thou weeping at, heart of 
butter-paste ? Who pursues or molests thee, thou soul of a tame 
mouse ? What dost thou want, unsatisfied in the very heart of 
abundance ? Art thou, perchance, tramping barefoot over the 
Riphsean mountains, instead of being seated on a bench like an 
archduke on the tranquil stream of this pleasant river, fromi 
which in a short space we shall come out upon the broad sea ? 
But we must have already emerged and gone seven hundred or 
eight hundred leagues ; and if I had here an astrolabe to take 
the altitude of the pole, I could tell thee how many we have 
travelled, though either I know little, or we have already crossed 


204 


DON QUIXOTE, 


or shall shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts tho rwo 
opposite poles midway.” 

^^And when we come to that lane your worship speaks of,” 
said Sancho, how far shall we have gone ? ” 

Very far,” said Don Quixote, for of the three hundred 
and sixty degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as com- 
puted by Ptolemy, the greatest cosmographer known, we shall 
have travelled one-half when we come to the line I spoke of.” 

“ By God,” said Sancho, your worship gi ves me a nice 
authority for what you say, putrid Dolly something trans- 
mogrified, or whatever it is.” 

Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon 
computed,” and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and 
said he, “ Thou must know, Sancho, that with the Spaniards 
and those who embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, one of, the 
signs they have to show them when they have passed the 
equinoctial line I told thee of, is, that the lice die upon every- 
body on board the ship, and not a single one is left, or to be 
found in the whole vessel if they gave its weight in gold for 
it ; so, Sancho, thou mayest as well pass thy hand down thy 
thigh, and if thou comest upon anything alive we shall be no 
longer in doubt ; if not, then we have crossed.” ^ 

I don’t believe a bit of it,” said Sancho ; “ still, I ’ll do as 
your worship bids me ; though I don’t know what need there 
is for trying these experiments, for I can see with my own 
eyes that we have not moved five yards away from the bank, 
or shifted two yards from where the animals stand,^ for there 
are Bocinante and Dapple in the very same place where we 
left them ; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear by all 
that ’s good, we are not stirring or moving at the pace of an 
ant.” 

Try the test I told thee of, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
and don’t mind any other, for thou knowest nothing about 

' In the Theatrum orhis Urrarwm of Abraham Ortelius (Antwerp, 
1600 ) , this phenomenon is said to be observable immediately after pass- 
ing the Azores. 

Hartzenbusch makes a mischievous "emendation ” here. He changes 
" two yards ” into " ten yards,” because he says, if the boat was five yards 
from the bank, it must have been still farther from the spot where the 
animals were tied. But Sancho’s meaning is clear : that the boat had not 
moved five yards out into the stream, or dropped with the stream two 
yards below the spot they had embarked at ; and this he shows by the use 
of the two words apartado and decantado^ as well as by speaking of watch- 
ing a point on the bank. 


CHAPTER XXIX, 


205 


colures, lines, parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, 
equinoxes, planets, signs, bearings, the measures of which the 
celestial and terrestrial spheres are composed ; if thou wert 
acquainted with all these things, or any portion of them, thou 
wouldst see clearly how many parallels we have cut, what 
signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left be- 
hind and are now leaving behind. But again I tell thee, feel 
and hunt, for I am certain thou art cleaner than a sheet of 
smooth white paper.” 

Sancho felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down 
to the hollo w of his left knee, he looked up at his master and 
said, Either the test is a false one, or we have not come to 
where your worship says, nor within many leagues of it.”’ 

Why, how so ? ” asked Don Quixote ; hast thou come 
upon aught ? ” 

“ Ay, and aughts,” replied Sancho ; and shaking his fingers 
he washed his whole hand in the river along which the boat 
was quietly gliding in midstream, not moved by any occult in- 
telligence or invisible enchanter, but simply by the current, 
just there smooth and gentle. 

They now came in sight of some large water mills that 
stood in the middle of the river,^ and the instant Don Quixote 
saw them he cried out to Sancho, “ Seest thou there, my 
friend ? there stands the city, castle, or fortress, where there 
is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or ill-used queen, or in- 
fanta, or princess, in aid of whom I am brought hither.” 

What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship 
talking about, senor ? ” said Sancho ; “ don’t you see that those 
are mills that stand in the river to grind corn ? ” 

Hold thy peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; though they 
look like mills they are not so ; I have already told thee that 
enchantments transform things and change their proper shapes ; 
I do not mean to say they really change them from one form 
into another, but that it seems as though they did, as experi- 
ence proved in the transformation of Dulcinea, sole refuge of 
my hopes.” 

By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the 
stream, began to move less slowly than hitherto. The millers 
belonging to the mills, when they saw the boat coming down 
the river, and on the point of being sucked in by the draught 
of the wheels, ran out in haste, several of them, with long 
* Floating mills, moored in mid-stream, are common on the Ebro. 


206 


DON QUIXOTE. 


poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and garments 
covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They 
raised loud shouts, crying, Devils of men, where are you 
going to ? Are you mad ? Do you want to drown yourselves, 
or dash yourselves to pieces among these wheels ? 

Did I not tell thee, Sancho,^’ said Don Quixote at this, 
that we had reached the place where I am to show what the 
might of my arm can do ? See what ruffians and villains 
come out against me ; see what monsters oppose me ; see what 
hideous countenances come to frighten us ! You shall soon 
see, scoundrels ! ” And then standing up in the boat he began 
in a loud voice to hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming, Ill- 
conditioned and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and 
freedom the person ye hold in durance in this your fortress or 
prison, high or low or of whatever rank or quality he be, for I 
am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of 
the Lions, for whom, by the disposition of Heaven above, it is 
reserved to give a happy issue to this adventure ; ’’ and so say- 
ing he drew his sword and began making passes in the air at 
the millers, who, hearing but not understanding all this non- 
sense, strove to stop the boat, which was now getting into the 
rushing channel of the wheels. Sancho fell upon his knees 
devoutly appealing to Heaven to deliver him from such immi- 
nent peril ; which it did by the activity and quickness of the 
millers, who, pushing against the boat with their poles, stopped 
it, not, however, without upsetting it and throwing Don Qui- 
xote and Sancho into the water ; and lucky it was for Don 
Quixote that he could swim like a goose, though the weight of 
his armor carried him twice to the bottom ; and had it not 
been for the millers, who plunged in and hoisted them both 
out, it would have been Troy town with the pair of them. As 
soon as, more drenched than thirsty, they were landed, Sancho 
went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes 
raised to heaven, prayed a long and fervent prayer to God to 
deliver him evermore from the rash projects and attempts of 
his master. The fishermen, the owners of the boat, which 
the mill-wheels had knocked to pieces, now came up, and see- 
ing it smashed they proceeded to strip Sancho and to demand 
payment for it from Don Quixote ; but he with great calmness, 
just as if nothing had happened to him, told the millers and 
fishermen that he would pay for the bark most cheerfully, on 
condition that they delivered up to. him, free and unhurt, 


CHAPTER XXX. 


207 


the person or persons that were in durance in that castle of 
theirs. 

What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman ? ” 
said one of the millers ; art thou for carrying off the people 
who come to grind corn in these mills ? 

That ’s enough,’’ said Don Quixote to himself, it would be 
preaching in the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this 
rabble to do any virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty 
enchanters must have encountered one another, and one frus- 
trates what the other attempts ; one provided the bark for me, 
and the other upset me ; God help us, this world is all mach- 
inations and schemes at cross purposes one with the other. I 
can do no more.” And then turning towards the mills he said 
aloud, Friends, whoe’er ye be that are immured in that prison, 
forgive me that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot deliver 
you from your misery ; this adventure is doubtless reserved and 
destined for some other knight.” 

So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals 
for the boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against 
the grain, saying, With a couple more bark businesses like 
this we shall have sunk our whole capital.” 

The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at 
the two figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary 
men, and were wholly unable to make out the drift of the obser- 
vations and questions Don Quixote addressed to them; and com- 
ing to the conclusion that they were madmen, they left them 
and betook themselves, the millers to their mills, and the fisher- 
men to their huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their 
beasts, and to their life of beasts, and this was the end of the 
adventure of the enchanted bark. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

OF DON Quixote’s adventure with a fair huntress. 

They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humor 
enough, knight and squire, Sancho particularly, for with him 
what touched the stock of money touched his heart, and when 
any was taken from him he felt as if he was robbed of the 
apples of his eyes. - In fine, without exchanging a word, they 


208 


DON QUIXOTE. 


mounted and quitted the famous river, Don Quixote absorbed 
in thoughts of his love, Sancho in thinking of his advancement, 
which just then, it seemed to him, he was very far from secur- 
ing ; for, fool as he was, he saw clearly enough that his master’s 
acts were all or most of them utterly senseless ; and he began 
to cast abotit for an opportunity of retiring from his service 
and going home some day, without entering into any explana- 
tions or taking any farewell of him. Fortune, however, ordered 
matters after a fashion very much the opposite of what he con- 
templated. 

It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming 
out of a wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadow, 
and at the far end of it observed some people, and as he drew 
nearer saw that it was a hawking party. Coming closer, he 
distinguished among them a lady of graceful mien, oh a pure 
white palfrey or hackney caparisoned with green trappings and 
a silver-mounted side-saddle. The lady was also in green, and 
so richly and splendidly dressed that splendor itself seemed 
personified in her. On her left hand she bore a hawk, a proof 
to Don Quixote’s mind that she must be some great lady and 
the mistress of the whole hunting party, which was the fact ; 
so he said to Sancho, “ Run, Sancho, my son, and say to that 
lady on the palfrey with the hawk that I, the Knight of the 
Lions, kiss the hands of her exalted beauty, and if her excel- 
lence will grant me leave I will go and kiss them in person and 
place myself at her service for aught that may be in my power 
and her highness may command ; and mind, Sancho, how thou 
speakest, and take care not to thrust in any of thy proverbs 
into thy message.” 

‘^You’ve got a likely one here to thrust any in!” said 
Sancho ; leave me alone for that ! Why, this is not the first 
time in my life I have carried messages to high and exalted 
ladies.” 

“ Except that thou didso carry to the lady Dulcinea,” said 
Don Quixote, I know not that thou hast carried any other, 
at least in my service.” 

That is true,” replied Sancho ; but pledges don’t distress 
a good paymaster, and in a house where there ’s plenty supper 
is soon cooked ; ^ I mean there ’s no need of telling or warning 
me about anything ; for I ’m ready for everything and know a 
little of everything.” 


* Provs. 164 and 41. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


209 


That I believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; go and good 
luck to thee, and God speed thee.’^ 

Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his 
regular pace, and came to where the fair huntress was stand- 
ing, and dismounting knelt before her and said, Fair lady, 
that knight that you see there, the Knight of the Lions by 
name, is my master, and I am a squire of his, and at home 
they call me Sancho Panza. This same Knight of the Lions, 
who was called not long since the Knight of the Kueful Counte- 
nance, sends by me to say may it please your highness to give' 
him leave that, with your permission, approbation, and consent, 
he may come and carry out his wishes, which are, as he says 
and I believe, to serve your exalted loftiness and beauty ; and 
if you give it, your ladyship will do a thing which will redound 
to your honor, and he will receive a most distinguished favor 
and happiness.’’ 

“ You have indeed, worthy squire,” said the lady, delivered 
your message with all the formalities such messages require ; 
rise up, for it is not right that the squire of a knight so great 
as he of the Kueful Countenance, of whom we have already 
heard a great deal here, should remain on his knees ; rise, my 
friend, and bid your master welcome to the services of myself 
and the duke my husband, in a country house we have here.” 

Sancho got up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good 
lady as by her high-bred air and her courtesy, but, above all, 
by what she had said about having heard of his master, the 
Knight of the Kueful Countenance ; for if she did not call him 
Knight of the Lions it was no doubt because he had so lately 
taken the name. Tell me, brother squire,” asked the duchess 
(whose title, however, is not known ’ ), this master of yours, 
is he not one of whom there is a history extant in print, called 
^ The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha,’ who 
has for the lady of his heart a certain Dulcinea del Toboso ? ” 
He is the same, senora,” replied Sancho ; and that squire 
of his who figures, or ought to figure, in the said history under 
the name of Sancho Panza, is myself, unless they have changed 
me in the cradle, I mean in the press.” 

I am rejoiced at this,” said the duchess ; go, brother 

'According to Pellicer, Don Quixote’s hosts were the Duke and 
Duchess of Villahermosa, and the scene of the following adventures a 
country seat of theirs near Pedrola, a village at the foot of the Moncayo, 
in the angle between Jolon and the Ebro. 

VOL. II. - 14 


210 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Panza, and tell your master that he is welcome to my estate, 
and that nothing could happen me that could give me greater 
pleasure.” 

Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this 
gratifying answer, and told him all the great lady had said to 
him, lauding to the skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty, 
her graceful gayety, and her courtesy. Don Quixote drew him- 
self up briskly in his saddle, fixed himself in his stirrups, 
settled his visor, gave Rocinante the spur, and with an easy 
bearing advanced to kiss the hands of the duchess, who, hav- 
ing sent to summon the duke her husband, told him while Don 
Quixote was approaching all about the message ; and as both 
of them had read the First Part of this history, and from it 
were aware of Don Quixote’s crazy turn, they awaited him with 
the greatest delight and anxiety to make his acquaintance, mean- 
ing to fall in with his humor and agree with everything he said, 
and, so long as he stayed with them, to treat him as a knight- 
errant, with all the ceremonies usual in the books of chivalry 
they had read, for they themselves were very fond of them 

Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and as he 
seemed about to dismount Sancha made haste to go and hold 
his stirrup for him ; but in getting down off Dapple he was so 
unlucky as to hitch his foot in one of the ropes of the pack- 
saddle in such a way that he was unable to free it, and was 
left hanging by it with his face and breast on the ground. 
Don Quixote, who was not used to dismount without having 
the stirrup held, fancying that Sancho had by this time come 
to hold it for him, threw himself off with a lurch and brought 
Rocinante’s saddle after him, which was no doubt badly 
girthed, and saddle and he both came to the ground ; not with' 
out discomfiture to him and abundant curses muttered between 
his teeth against the unlucky Sancho, who had his foot still in 
the shackles. The duke ordered his huntsmen to go to the 
help of knight and squire, and they raised Don Quixote sorely 
shaken by his fall ; and he, limping, advanced as best he could 
to kneel before the noble pair. This, however, the duke w'ould 
by no means permit ; on the contrary, dismounting from his 
horse, he went and embraced Don Quixote, saying, I am 
grieved, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that your first 
experience on my ground should have been such an unfortu- 
nate one as we have seen ; but the carelessness of squires is 
often the cause of worse accidents.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


211 


That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty 
prince,” replied Don Quixote, can not be unfortunate, even 
if my fall had not stopped short of the depths of the bottom- 
less pit,' for the glory of having seen you would have lifted me 
up and delivered me from it. My squire, God’s curse upon him, 
is better at unloosing his tongue in talking impertinence than 
in tightening the girths of a saddle to keep it steady ; but how- 
ever I may be, fallen or raised up, on foot or on horseback, I 
shall always be at your service and that of my lady the duch- 
ess, your worthy consort, worthy queen of beauty and para- 
mount princess of courtesy.” 

Gently, Sehor Don Quixote of La Mancha,” said the duke ; 
where my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso is, it is not right 
that other beauties should be praised.” 

Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was 
standing by, and before his master could answer he said. 
There is no denying, and it must be maintained, that my lady 
Dulcinea del Toboso is very beautiful ; but the hare jumps up 
where one least expects it ; ^ and I have heard say that what 
we call nature is like a potter that makes vessels of clay, and 
he who makes one fair vessel can as well make two, or three, 
or a hundred ; I say so because, by my faith, my lady the 
duchess is in no way behind my mistress the lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso.” 

Don Quixote turned to the duchess and said, Your highness 
may conceive that never had knight-errant in this world a more 
talkative or a droller squire than I have, and he will prove the 
truth of what I say, if your highness is pleased to accept of my 
services for a few days.” 

To which the duchess made answer, That worthy Sancho 
is droll I consider a very good thing, because it is a sign that 
he is shrewd ; for drollery and sprightliness, Senor Don Quixote, 
as you very well know, do not take up their abode with dull 
wits ; and as good Sancho is droll and sprightly I here set him 
down as shrewd.” 

And talkative,” added Don Quixote. 

So much the better,” said the duke, for many droll things 
can not be said in few words ; but not to lose time in talking, 
come, great Knight of the Kueful Countenance ” — 

Of the Lions, your highness must say,” said Sancho, for 
there is no Kueful Countenance nor any such character now ” 
> Prov. 129. 


212 


DON QUIXOTE. 


He of the Lions be it/^ ^ continued the duke ; I say, let 
Sir Knight of the Lions come to a castle of mine close by, 
where he shall be given that reception which is due to so 
exalted a personage, and which the duchess and I are wont to 
give to all knights-errant who come there.” 

By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Bocinante’s 
saddle, and Don Quixote having got on his back and the duke 
mounted a fine horse, they placed the duchess in the middle 
and set out for the castle. The duchess desired Sancho to 
come to her side, for she found infinite enjoyment in listening 
to his shrewd remarks. Sancho required no pressing, but 
pushed himself in between them and made a fourth in the 
conversation, to the great amusement of the duchess and the 
duke, who thought it rare good fortune to receive such a 
knight-errant and such a homely squire ^ in their castle. 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS. 

Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing 
himself, as it seemed, an established favorite with the duchess, 
for he looked forward to finding in her castle what he had 
found in Don Diego’s house and in Basilio’s ; he was always 
fond of good living, and always seized by the forelock any 
opportunity of feasting himself whenever it presented itself. 
The history informs us, then, that before they reached the 
country house or castle, the duke went on ir advance and in- 
structed all his servants how they were to treat Don Quixote ; 
and so the instant he came up to the castle gates with the 
duchess, two lackeys or equerries, clad in what they call 
morning gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feet, 
hastened out, and catching Don Quixote in their arms before 
he saw or heard them, said to him, Your highness should 
go and take my lady the duchess off her horse.” Don Quixote 
obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between 
the two over the matter ; but in the end the duchess’s deter- 

* The reading suggested by Prof. Calderon, in his excellent little book 
Cervantes Vindicado, etc., Madrid, 1854. 

* Escvdero andado., a play upon the words cahallero andante. 


CHAPTER XXXI . 


213 


mination carried the day, and she refused to get down or dis- 
mount from her palfrey except in the arms of the duke, saying 
she did not consider herself worthy to impose so unnecessary 
a burden on so great a knight. At length the duke came out 
to take her down, and as they entered a spacious court two 
fair damsels came forward and threw over Don Quixote’s 
shoulders a large mantle of the finest scarlet cloth, and at the 
same instant all the galleries of the court were lined with the 
men-servants and women-servants of the household, crying. 
Welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry ! ” while all 
or most of them flung pellets filled with scented water over 
Don Quixote and the duke and duchess ; at all which Don 
Quixote was greatly astonished, and this was the first time 
that he thoroughly felt and believed himself to be a knight- 
errant in reality and not merely in fancy, now that he saw 
himself treated in the same way as he had read of such knights 
being treated in days of yore. 

Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and 
entered the castle, but feeling some twinges of conscience at 
having left the ass alone, he approached a respectable duenna 
who had come out with the rest to receive the duchess, and in 
a low voice he said to her, “ Senora Gonzalez, or however your 
grace may be called ” — 

I am called Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba,” replied the 
duenna ; what is your will, brother ? ” To which Sancho 
made answer, I should be glad if your worship would do me 
the favor to go out to the castle gate, where you will find a 
gray ass of mine ; make them, if you please, put him in the 
stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor little beast 
is rather easily frightened, and cannot bear being alone at 
all.” 

If the master is as wise as the man,” said the duenna, 
we have got a fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and 
bad luck to you and him who brought you here ; go, look after 
your ass, for we, the duennas of this house, are not used to 
work of that sort.” 

Well then, in troth,” returned Sancho, I have heard my 
master, who is the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the 
story of Lancelot when he came from Britain, say that ladies 
waited upon him and duennas upon his hack ; and, if it comes 
to my ass, I wouldn’t change him for Senor Lancelot’s hack.” 

If you are a jester, brother,” said the duenna, keep 


214 


DON QUIXOTE, 


your drolleries for some place where they’ll pass muster and 
be paid for ; for you ’ll get nothing from me but a fig.” ^ 

At any rate, it will be a very ripe one,” said Sancho, for 
you won’t lose the trick in years by a point too little.” 

Son of a bitch,” said the duenna, all aglow with anger, 

whether I ’m old or not, it ’s with God I have to reckon, not 
with you, you garlic-stuffed scoundrel ! ” and she said it so 
loud, that the duchess heard it, and turning round and seeing 
the duenna in such a state of excitement, and her eyes flaming 
so, asked whom she was wrangling with. 

With this good fellow here,” said the duenna, who has 
particularly requested me to go and put an ass of his that is 
at the castle gate into the stable, holding it up to me as an 
example that they did the same I don ’t know where — that 
some ladies waited on one Lancelot, and duennas on his hack ; 
and what is more, to wind up with, he called me old.” 

That,” said the duchess, “ I should have considered the 
greatest affront that could be offered me ; ” and addressing 
Sancho, she said to him, You must know, friend Sancho, 
that Dona Eodriguez is very youthful, and that she wears that 
hood more for authority and custom sake than because of her 
years.” 

May all the rest of mine be unlucky,” said Sancho, if I 
meant it that way ; I only spoke because the affection I have 
for my ass is so great, and I thought I could not commend 
him to a more kind-hearted person than the lady Dona Ko- 
driguez.” 

Don Quixote, who was listening, said to him, Is this 
proper conversation for the place, Sancho ? ” 

Senor,” replied Sancho, every one must mention what he 
wants wherever he may be; I thought of Dapple here, and 
I spoke of him here ; if I had thought of him in the stable I 
would have spoken there.” 

On which the duke observed, Sancho is quite right, and 
there is no reason at all to find fault with him ; Dapple shall 
be fed to his heart’s content, and Sancho may rest easy, for he 
shall be treated like himself.” 

While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, 
was proceeding, they ascended the staircase and ushered Don 
Quixote into a chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and 

* " The fig of Spain.” — Hen, V, iii. 6. *' And fig me, like the brag* 

ging Spaniard.” — 2 Hen, IV, v. 3. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


215 


brocade ; six damsels relieved him of his armor and waited 
on him like pages, all of them prepared and instructed by the 
duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and how they 
were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe 
they were treating him like a knight-errant. When his armor 
was removed, there stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting 
breeches and chamois doublet, lean, lanky, and long, with 
cheeks that seemed to be kissing each other inside ; such a figure, 
that if the damsels waiting on him had not taken care to check 
their merriment (which was one of the particular directions 
their master and mistress had given them), they would have 
burst with laughter. They asked him to let himself be 
stripped that they might put a shirt on him, but he would not 
on any account, saying that modesty became knights-errant 
just as much as valor. However, he said they might give the 
shirt to Sancho ; and shutting himself in with him in a room 
where there was a sumptuous bed, he undressed and put on 
the shirt; and then, finding himself alone with Sancho, he 
said to him, Tell me, thou new-fledged buffoon and old booby, 
dost thou think it right to offend and insult a duenna so 
deserving of reverence and respect as that one just now ? 
Was that a time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or are these 
noble personages likely to let the beasts fare badly when they 
treat their owners in such elegant style ? For God’s sake, 
Sancho, restrain thyself, and don’t show* the thread so as to let 
them see what a coarse, boorish texture thou art of. Re- 
member, sinner that thou art, the master is the more esteemed 
the more respectable and well-bred his servants are ; and that 
one of the greatest advantages that princes have over other 
men is that they have servants as good as themselves to wait 
on them. Dost thou not see — short-sighted being that thou 
art, and unlucky mortal that I am ! — that if they perceive 
thee to be a coarse clown or a dull blockhead, they will suspect 
me to be some impostor or swindler ? Nay, nay, Sancho 
friend, keep clear, oh, keep clear of these stumbling-blocks ; 
for he who falls into the way of being a chatterbox and droll, 
drops into a wretched buffoon the first time he trips ; bridle 
thy tongue, consider and weigh thy words before they escape 
thy mouth, and Dear in mind we are now in quarters whence, 
by God’s help, and the strength of my arm, we shall come 
forth mightily advanced in fame and fortune.” 

Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his 


216 


DON QUIXOTE. 


mouth shut, and to bite off his tongue before he uttered a word 
that was not altogether to the purpose and well considered, 
and told him he might make his mind easy on that point, for 
it should never be discovered through him what they were. 

Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his 
sword, threw the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, placed on 
his head a montera of green satin that the damsels had given 
him, and thus arrayed passed out into the large room, where he 
found the damsels drawn up in double file, the same number 
on each side, all with the appliances for washing the hands, 
which they presented to him with profuse obeisances and cere- 
monies. Then came twelve pages, together with the seneschal, 
to lead him to dinner, as his hosts were already waiting for 
him. They placed him in the midst of them, and with much 
pomp and stateliness they conducted him into another room, 
where there was a sumptuous table laid with but four covers. 
The duchess and the duke came out to the door of the room to 
receive him, and with them a grave ecclesiastic, one of those 
who rule noblemen’s houses ; one of those who, not being born 
magnates themselves, never know how to teach those who are 
how to behave as such ; one of those who would have the great- 
ness of great folk measured by their own narrowness of mind ; 
one of those who, when they try to introduce economy into the 
household they rule, lead it into meanness. One of this sort, I 
say, must have been the grave churchman who came out with 
the duke and duchess to receive Don Quixote.^ 

A vast number of polite speeches were exchanged, and at 
length, taking Don Quixote between them, they proceeded to sit 
down to table. The duke pressed Don Quixote to take the 
head of the table, and, though he refused, the entreaties of the 
duke were so urgent that he had to accept it. 

The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke 
and duchess those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood 
by, gaping with amazement at the honor he saw shown to 
his master by these illustrious persons; and observing all 
the ceremonious pressing that had passed between the duke 
and Don Quixote to induce him to take his seat at the head of 
the table, he said, If your worship will give me leave I will 

* There are frequent references to the despotism of the confessors in 
noblemen’s houses, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. According 
to tradition, Cervantes has here drawn the portrait of a confessor in the 
house of the Duke of Be jar, who all but persuaded the duke to refuse the 
dedication of the First Part of Don Quixote. 



DON QUIXOTE DRESSED HIMSELF AND THREW THE SCARLET MANTLE 

OVER HIS SHOULDERS. 






CHAPTER XXXI. 


217 


tell you a story of what happened in my village about this 
matter of seats.’^ 

The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembled, mak- 
ing sure that he was about to say something foolish. Sancho 
glanced at him, and guessing his thoughts, said, Don’t be 
afraid of my going astray, senor, or saying anything that 
won’t be pat to the purpose ; I have n’t forgotten the advice 
your worship gave me just now about talking much or little, 
well or ill.” 

“ I have no recollection of anything, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote ; “ say what thou wilt, only say it quickly.” 

“ Well then,” said Sancho, what I am going to say is so 
true that my master Don Quixote, who is here present, will 
keep me from lying.” 

Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho,” said Don 
Quixote, for I am not going to stop thee ; but consider what 
thou art going to say.” 

I have so considered and reconsidered it,” said Sancho, 

that the bell-ringer ’s in a safe berth ; ^ as will be seen by 
what follows.” 

It would be well,” said Don Quixote, if your highnesses 
would order them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap 
of nonsense.” 

By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away 
from me for a moment,” said the duchess ; I am very fond 
of him, for I know he is very discreet.” 

Discreet be the days of your holiness,” said Sancho, for 
the good opinion you have of my wit, though there ’s none in 
me ; but the story I want to tell is this. There was an 
invitation given by a gentleman of my town, a very rich 
one, and one of quality, for he was one of the jClamos of 
Medina del Campo, and married to Dona Mencia de Quinones, 
the daughter of Dan Alonso de Maranon, Knight of the Order 
of Santiago, that was drowned at the Herradura ^ — him there 
was that quarrel about years ago in our village, that my 
master Don Quixote was mixed up in, to the best of my belief, 
that Tomasillo the scapegrace, the son of Balbastro the smith, 
was wounded in. — Is n’t all this true, master mine ? As you 

* i.e. in the belfry out of danger. Prov. 200. 

® A port to the east of Malaga, where, in 1562, twenty-two galleys under 
the command of Juan de Mendoza were wrecked in a storm, with a loss 
of over four thousand men. 


218 


DON QUIXOTE. 


live, say so, that these gentlefolk may not take me for some 
lying chatterer.” 

So far,” said the ecclesiastic, I take you to be more a 
chatterer than a liar ; but I don’t know what I shall take you 
for by-and-by.” 

“ Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote, “ that I have no choice but to say thou must be 
telling the truth ; go on, and cut the story short, for thou art 
taking the way not to make an end for two days to come,” 

He is not to cut it short,” said the duchess ; on the con- 
trary, for my gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though 
he should not finish it these six days ; and if he took so many 
they would be to me the pleasantest I ever spent.” 

Well then, sirs, I say,” continued Sancho, ^^that this same 
gentleman, whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for 
it ’s not a bow-shot from my house to his, invited a poor but 
respectable laborer ” — 

Get on, brother,” said the churchman ; at the rate you 
are going you will not stop with your story short of the next 
world.” 

“ I ’ll stop less than half-way, please God,” said Sancho ; and 
so I say this laborer, coming to the house of the gentleman I 
spoke of that invited him — rest his soul, he is now dead ; and 
more by token he died the death of an angel, so they say ; for 
I was not there, for just at that time I had gone to reap at 
Tembleque ” — - 

As you live, my son,” said the churchman, make haste 
back from Tembleque, and finish your story without burying 
the gentleman, unless you want to make more funerals.” ^ 

Well then, it so happened,” said Sancho, that as the pair 
of them were going to sit down to table — and I think I can 
see them now plainer than ever ” — 

Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from 
the irritation the worthy churchman showed at the long-winded, 
halting way Sancho had of telling his story, while Don Quixote 
was chafing with rage and vexation. 

So, as I was saying,” continued Sancho, as the pair of 
them were going to sit down to table, as I said, the laborer 
insisted upon the gentleman’s taking the head of the table, 

* " Make haste back from Tembleque, brother ” — Vuelva presto de Tem- 
hleque^ hermano — has grown into a popular phrase, applied in the case of 
a prolix story-teller. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


219 


i 

and the gentleman insisted upon the laborer’s taking it, as his 
orders should be obeyed in his own house ; but the laborer, who 
plumed himself on his politeness and good-breeding, would not 
on any account, until the gentleman, out of patience, putting 
his hands on his shoulders, compelled him by force to sit 
down, saying, ^ Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever I sit 
will be the head to you ; ’ and that ’s the story, and, troth, I 
think it has n’t been brought in amiss here.” 

Don Quixote turned all colors, which, on his sunburnt face, 
mottled it till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess 
suppressed their laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don 
Quixote, for they saw through Sancho’s impertinence ; and to 
change the conversation, and keep Sancho from uttering more 
absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote what news he had 
of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any presents of 
giants or miscreants lately, for he could not but have van- 
quished a good many. 

To which Don Quixote replied, Senora, my misfortunes, 
though they had a beginning, will never have an end. I have 
vanquished giants and I have sent her caitiffs and miscreants ; 
but where are they to find her if she is enchanted and turned 
into the most ill-favored peasant wench that can be imagined ? ” 

I don’t know,” said Sancho Panza ; “ to me she seems the 
fairest creature in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and 
jumping she won’t give in to a tumbler ; by my faith, seiiora 
duchess, she leaps from the ground on to the back of an ass 
like a cat.” 

Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho ? ” asked the duke. 

What, seen her ! ” said Sancho ; why, who the devil was 
it but myself that first thought of the enchantment business ? 
She is as much enchanted as my father.” ^ 

The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and 
caitiffs and enchantments, began to suspect that this must be 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose story the duke was always 
reading ; and he had himself often reproved him for it, telling 
him it was foolish to read such fooleries ; and becoming con- 
vinced that his suspicion was correct, addressing the duke, he 
said very angrily to him, Senor, your excellence will have to 
give an account to God for what this good man does. This 
Don Quixote, or Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, can 
not, I imagine, be such a blockhead as your excellence would 

* This remark of Sancho is, of course, an aside to the duke. 


220 


DON QUIXOTE. 


have him, holding out encouragement, to him to go on with his 
vagaries and follies.’* Then turning to address Don Quixote he 
said, ‘‘And you, numskull, who put it into your head that you 
are a knight-errant, and vanquish giants and capture mis- 
creants ? Cf o your ways in a good hour, and in a good hour be 
it said to you : Go home and bring up your children if you 
have any, and attend to your business, and give over going 
wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing- 
stock of yourself to all who know you and all who don’t. 
Where, in Heaven’s name, have you discovered that there are 
or ever were knights-errant ? Where are there giants in Spain 
or miscreants in La Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, or all the 
rest of the silly things they tell about you ? ” 

Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman’s 
words, and as soon as he perceived he had done speaking, re- 
gardless of the presence of the duke and duchess, he sprang to 
his feet with angry looks and an agitated countenance, and 
said — But the reply deserves a chapter to itself. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH 
OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL. 

Don Quixote, then, having risen to his feet, trembling 
from head to foot like a man dosed with mercury, said in a 
hurried, agitated voice, “ The place I am in, the presence in 
which I stand, and ,the respect I have and always have had 
for the profession to which your worship belongs, hold and 
bind the hands of my just indignation ; and as well for these 
reasons as because I know, as every one knows, that a gowns- 
man’s weapon is the same as a woman’s, the tongue, I will 
with mine engage in equal combat with your worship, from 
whom one might have expected good advice instead of foul 
abuse. Pious, well-meant reproof requires a different de- 
meanor and arguments of another sort ; at any rate, to have 
reproved me in public, and so roughly, exceeds the bounds of 
proper reproof, for that comes better with gentleness than 
with rudeness ; and it is not seemly to call the sinner roundly 
blockhead and booby, without knowing anything of the sin 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


221 


that is reproved. Come, tell me, for which of the stupidities 
you have observed in me do you condemn and abuse me, and 
bid me go home and look after my house and wife and chil- 
dren without knowing whether I have any ? Is nothing more 
needed than to get a footing, by hook or by crook, in other 
people’s houses to rule over the masters (and that, perhaps, 
after having been brought up in all the straitness of some 
seminary, and without having ever seen more of the world 
than may lie within twenty or thirty leagues round), to fit 
one to lay down the law rashly for chivalry, and pass judg- 
ment on knights-errant ? Is it, haply, an idle occupation, or 
is the time ill-spent that is spent in roaming the world 
in quest, not of its enjoyments, but of those arduous toils 
whereby the good mount upwards to the abodes of everlasting 
life ? If gentlemen, great lords, nobles, men of high birth, 
were to rate me as a fool I should take it as an irreparable 
insult; but I care not a farthing if clerks who have never 
entered upon or trod the paths of chivalry should think me 
foolish. Knight I am, and knight I will die, if such be the 
pleasure of the Most High. Some take the broad road of 
overweening ambition ; * others that of mean and servile 
flattery ; others that of deceitful hypocrisy, and some that of 
true religion ; but I, led by my star, follow the narrow path' of 
knight-errantry, and in pursuit of that calling I despise 
wealth, but not honor. I have redressed injuries, righted 
wrongs, punished insolences, vanquished giants, and crushed 
monsters ; I am in love, for no other reason than that it is 
incumbent on knights-errant to be so ; but though I am, I am 
no carnal-minded lover, but one of the chaste, platonic sort. 
My intentions are always directed to worthy ends, to do good 
to all and evil to none ; and if he who means this, does this, 
and makes this his practice deserves to be called a fool, it 
is for your highnesses to say, 0 most excellent duke and 
duchess.” 

Good, by God ! ” cried Sancho ; say no more in your own 

^ The first and all editions that I have seen, Hartzenbusch’s included, 
have el ancho campo^ " the broad field ” of ambition ; but though a trans- 
lator and a foreigner has no right to propose emendations of the text, I 
venture to suggest that camino., " road,” is the more likely word. The case 
is even stronger here than in vol. i., chapter xviii., where precisely the 
same substitution has been accepted by all critics, Don Quixote is 
speaking of ways of life and lines of conduct ; it would be absurd to talk 
of the field of flattery or hypocrisy, and a narrow path is naturally the 
opposite of a broad road, not of a broad field. 


222 


DON QUIXOTE. 


defence, master mine, for there ’s nothing more in the world to 
be said, thought, or insisted on ; and besides, when this gentle- 
man denies, as he has, that there are or ever have been any 
knights-errant in the world, is it any wonder if he knows 
nothing of what he has been talking about?’’ 

Perhaps, brother,” said the ecclesiastic, ^^you are that 
Sancho Panza that is mentioned, to whom your master has 
promised an island ? ” 

Yes, I am,” said Sancho, and what ’s more, I am one who 
deserves it as much as any one ; I am one of the sort — ^ Attach 
thyself to the good, and thou wilt be one of them,’ and of 
those, ^ Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art 
fed,’ and of those, ^Who leans against a good tree, a good 
shade covers him ; ’ ^ I have leant upon a good master, and I 
have been for months going about with him, and please God 
I shall be just such another ; long life to him and long life to 
me, for neither will he be in any want of empires to rule, or I 
of islands to govern.” 

‘‘ No, Sancho my friend, certainly not, ” said the duke, for 
in the name of Senor Don Quixote I confer upon you the gov- 
ernment of one of no small importance that I have at my 
disposal. ” 

** Go down on thy knees, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and 
kiss the feet of his excellence for the favor he has bestowed 
upon thee.” 

Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up 
from table completely out of temper, exclaiming, ‘‘By the 
gown I wear, I am almost inclined to say that your excellence 
is as great a fool as these sinners. No wonder they are mad, 
when people who are in their senses sanction their madness ! 
I leave your excellence with them, for so long as they are in 
the house, I will remain in my own, and spare myself the 
trouble of reproving what I can not remedy ; ’? and without utter- 
ing another word, or eating another morsel, he went off, the. 
entreaties of the duke and duchess being entirely unavailing to 
stop him ; not that the duke said much to him, for he could 
not, because of the laughter his uncalled-for anger provoked. 

When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, “ You 
have replied on your own behalf so stoutly. Sir Knight of the 
Lions, that there is no occasion to seek further satisfaction 
for this, which, though it may look like an offence, is not so at 
‘ Provs. 25, 153, and 15. 


CHAPTER XXXI I . 


223 


all, for, as women can give no offence, no more can ecclesiastics, 
as you very well know.” 

That is true,” said Don Quixote, and the reason is, that 
he who is not liable to offence can not give offence to any one. 
Women, children, and ecclesiastics, as they can not defend 
themselves, though they may receive offence can not be insulted, 
because between the offence and the insult there is, as your 
excellence very well knows, this difference : the insult comes 
from one who is capable of offering it, and does so, and main- 
tains it; the offence may come from any quarter without 
carrying insult. To take an example : a man is standing un- 
suspectingly in the street and ten others come up armed and 
beat him ; he draws his sword and quits himself like a man, bii'c 
the number of his antagonists makes it impossible for him to 
effect his purpose and avenge himself ; this man suffers an 
offence but not an insult. Another example will make the same 
thing plain : a man is standing with his back turned, another 
comes up and strikes him, and after striking him takes to flight, 
without waiting an instant, and the other pursues him but does 
not overtake him ; he who received the blow received an of- 
fence, but not an insult, because an insult must be maintained. 
If he who struck him, though he did so sneakingly and treach- 
erously, had drawn his sword and stood and faced him, then 
he who had been struck would have received offence and 
insult at the same time ; offence because he was struck treacher- 
ously, insult because he who struck him maintained what he 
had done, standing his ground without taking to flight. And so, 
according to the laws of the accursed duel, I may have received 
offence, but not insult, for neither women nor children can 
maintain it, nor can they wound, nor have they any way of 
standing their ground, and it is just the same with those con- 
nected with religion ; for these three sorts of persons are with- 
out arms offensive or defensive, and so, though naturally they 
are bound to defend themselves, they have no right to offend 
anybody ; and though I said just now I might have received 
offence, I say now certainly not, for he who can not receive an 
insult can still less give one ; ^ for which reasons I ought not 
to feel, nor do I feel, aggrieved at what that good man said to 
me ; I only wish he had stayed a little longer, that I might have 
shown him the mistake he makes in supposing and maintain- 
ing that there are not and never have been any knights-errant 

' Biedermann calls this discourse “ modele d’art de deraisonner.” 


224 


DON QUIXOTE. 


in the world ; had Amadis or any of his countless descendants 
heard him say as much, I am sure it would not have gone well 
with his worship.” 

“ I will take my oath of that,” said Sancho ; they would 
have give him a slash that would have slit him down from top 
to toe like a pomegranate or a ripe melon ; they were likely 
fellows to put up with jokes of that sort ! By my faith, I hn 
certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan had heard the little man’s 
words he would have given him such a spank on the mouth 
that he wouldn’t have spoken for the next three years ; ay, let 
him tackle them, and he ’ll see how he ’ll get out of their 
hands ! ” 

The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die 
with laughter, and in her own mind she set him down as 
droller and madder than his master ; and there were a good 
many just then who were of the same opinion. 

Don Quixote finally grew calm, and dinner came to an end, 
and as the cloth was removed four damsels came in, one of 
them with a silver basin, another with a jug also of silver, a 
third with two fine white towels on her shoulder, and the 
fourth with her arms bared to the elbows, and in her white 
hands (for white they certainly were) a round ball of Naples 
soap. The one with the basin approached, and with arch 
composure and impudence, thrust it under Don Quixote’s chin, 
who, wondering at such a ceremony, said never a word, sup- 
posing it to be the custom of that country to wash beards 
instead of hands ; he therefore stretched his out as far as he 
could, and at the same instant the jug began to pour and the 
damsel with the soap rubbed his beard briskly, raising snow- 
fiakes, for the soap lather was no less white, not only over the 
beard, but all over the face, and over the eyes of the submis- 
sive knight, so that they were perforce obliged to keep shut. 
The duke and duchess, who had not known anything about 
this, waited to see what would come of this strange washing. 
The barber damsel, when she had him a hand’s breadth deep 
in lather, pretended that there was no more water, and bade 
the one with the jug go and fetch some, while Senor Don Qui- 
xote waited. She did so, and Don Quixote was left the strang- 
est and most ludicrous figure that could be imagined. All 
those present, and there were a good many, were watching 
him, and as they saw him there with half a yard of neck, and 
that uncommonly brown, his eyes shut, and his beard full of 


CHAPTER XXXI L 


225 


8oap, it was a great wonder, and only by great discretion, that 
they were able to restrain their laughter. The damsels, the 
concocters of the joke, kept their eyes down, not daring to 
look at their master and mistress ; and as for them, laughter 
and anger struggled within them, and they knew not what to 
do, whether to punish the audacity of the girls, or to reward 
them for the amusement they had received from seeing Don 
Quixote in such a plight. 

At length the damsel with the jug returned and they made 
an end of washing Don Quixote, and the one who carried the 
towels very deliberately wiped him and dried him ; and all 
four together making him a profound obeisance and courtesy, 
they were about to go, when the duke, lest Don Quixote 
should see through the joke, called out to the one with the 
basin saying, Come and wash me, and take care that there is 
water enough.” The girl, sharp-witted and prompt, came and 
placed the basin for the duke as she had done for Don Quixote, 
and they soon had him well soaped and washed, and having 
wiped him dry they made their obeisance and retired. It 
appeared afterwards that the duke had sworn that if they had 
not washed him as they had Don Quixote he would have pun- 
ished them for their impudence, which they adroitly atoned 
for by soaping him as well. 

Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very atten- 
tively, and said to himself, God bless me, if it were only the 
custom in this country to wash squires’ beards too as well as 
knights’ ! For by God and upon my soul I want it badly ; and 
if they gave me a scrape of the razor besides I ’d take it as a 
still greater kindness.” 

What are you saying to yourself, Sancho ? ” asked the 
duchess. 

I was saying, senora,” he replied, “ that in the courts of 
other princes, when the cloth is taken away, I have always 
heard say they give water for the hands, but not lye for the 
beard ; and that shows it is good to live long that you may 
see much ; to be sure, they say too that he who lives a long 
life must undergo much evil ; ‘ though to undergo a washing 
of that sort is pleasure rather than pain.” 

Don’t be uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the duchess ; “ I will 
take care that my damsels wash you, and even put you in tha 
tub if necessary.” 

* Prove. 249 and 243. 

VOL. II. — 15 


226 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ I ’ll be content with the beard,” said Sancho, at any 
rate for the present; and as for the future, God has decreed 
what is to be.” 

Attend to worthy Sancho’s request, seneschal,” said the 
duchess, and do exactly what he wishes.” 

The seneschal replied that Senor Sancho should be obeyed 
in everything; and with that he went away to dinner and 
took Sancho along with him, while the duke and duchess 
and Don Quixote remained at table discussing a great variety 
of things, but all bearing on the calling of arms and knight- 
errantry. 

The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a 
retentive memory, to describe and portray to her the beauty 
and features of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by 
what fame trumpeted abroad of her beauty, she felt sure she 
must be the fairest creature in the world, nay, in all La 
Mancha. 

Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess’s request, and 
said, If I could pluck out my heart, and lay it on a plate on 
this table here before your highness’s eyes, it would spare my 
tongue the pain of telling what can hardly be thought of, for 
in it your excellence would see her portrayed in full. But why 
should I attempt to depict and describe in detail, and feature 
by feature, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea, the burden 
being one worthy of other shoulders than mine, an enterprise 
wherein the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, 
and the graver of Lysippus ought to be employed, to paint it 
in pictures and carve it in marble and bronze, and Ciceronian 
and Demosthenian eloquence to sound its praises ? ” 

What does Demosthenian mean, Senor Don Quixote ? ” 
said the duchess; ‘‘it is a word I never heard in all my life.” 

“ Demosthenian eloquence,” said Don Quixote, “ means the 
eloquence of Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means that of Cicero^ 
who were the two most eloquent orators in the world.” 

“ True,” said the duke ; “ you must have lost your wits to 
ask such a question. Nevertheless, Senor Don Quixote 
would greatly gratify us if he would depict her to us ; for 
never fear, even in an outline or sketch she will be something 
to make the fairest envious.” 

“ I would do so certainly,” said Don Quixote, “ had she not 
been blurred to my mind’s eye by the misfortune that fell upon 
her a short time since, one of such a nature that I am more 


CHAPTER XXXII, 


22 ? 


ready to weep over it than to describe it. For your high* 
nesses must know that, going a few days back to kiss her 
hands and receive her benediction, approbation, and permission 
for this third sally, I found her altogether a different being 
from the one I sought; I found her enchanted and changed 
from a princess into a peasant, from fair to foul, from an 
angel into a devil, from fragrant to pestiferous, from refined 
to clownish, from a dignified lady into a jumping tomboy, from 
light to darkness, and, in a word, from Dulcinea del Toboso 
into a coarse Sayago wench.’’ ‘ 

God bless me ! ” said the duke aloud at this, who can 
have done the world such an injury ? Who can have robbed it 
of the beauty that gladdened it, of the grace and gayety that 
charmed it, of the modesty that shed a lustre upon it ? ” 

Who ? ” replied Don Quixote ; who could it be but some 
malignant enchanter of the many that persecute me out of 
envy — that accursed race born into the world to obscure and 
bring to naught the achievements of the good, and glorify 
and exalt the deeds of the wicked ? Enchanters have perse- 
cuted me, enchanters persecute me still, and enchanters will 
continue to persecute me until they have sunk me and my 
lofty chivalry in the deep abyss of oblivion ; and they injure 
and wound me where they know I feel it most. For to de- 
prive a knight-errant of his lady is to deprive him of the eyes 
he sees with, of the sun that gives him light, of the food 
whereby he lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I 
say it now once more, a knight-errant without a lady is like 
a tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, or a 
shadow without the body that causes it.” 

‘‘There is no denying it,” said the duchess; “but still, if 
we are to believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out 
here lately with general applause, it is to be inferred from it, 
if I mistake not, that you never saw the lady Dulcinea, and 
that the said lady is nothing in the world but an imaginary 
lady, one that you yourself begot and gave birth to in your 
brain, and adorned with whatever charms and perfections you 
chose.” 

“ There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don 
Quixote ; “ God knows whether there be any Dulcinea or not 
in the world, or whether she is imaginary or not imaginary ; 
these are things the proof of which must not be pushed to 

* i.e., of the Sayago district; v. 1, p. 132, chapter xix., ante. 


228 


DON QUIXOTE, 


extreme lengths. I have not begotten nor given birth to my lady, 
though 1 behold her as she needs must be, a lady who contains 
in herself all the qualities to make her famous throughout the 
world, beautiful without blemish, dignified without haughti- 
ness, tender and yet modest, gracious from courtesy and court- 
eous from good breeding, and lastly of exalted lineage, because 
beauty shines forth and excels with a higher degree of perfec- 
tion upon good blood than in the fair of lowly birth.’’ 

“ That is true,” said the duke ; but Senor Don Quixote will 
give me leave to say what I am constrained to say by the 
story of his exploits that I have read, from which it is to be 
inferred that, granting there is a Dulcinea in El Toboso, or 
out of it, and that she is in the highest degree beautiful as you 
have described her to us, as regards the loftiness of her lineage 
she is not on a par with theOrianas, Alastraj areas, Madasimas, 
or others of that sort, with whom, as you well know, the his- 
tories abound.” 

To that I may reply,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that Dulcinea is 
the daughter of her own works,^ and that virtues rectify blood, 
and that lowly virtue is more to be regarded and esteemed than 
exalted vice. Dulcinea, besides, has that within her that 
may raise her to be a crowned and sceptred queen ; for the 
merit of a fair and virtuous woman is capable of performing 
greater miracles ; and virtually, though not formally, she has 
in herself higher fortunes.” 

I protest, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, that in 
all you say, you go most cautiously and lead in hand, as the 
saying is ; ^ henceforth I will believe myself, and I will take 
care that every one in my house believes, even my lord the 
duke if needs be, that there is a Dulcinea in El Toboso, and 
that she is living to-day, and that she is beautiful and nobly 
born and deserves to have such a knight as Senor Don Quixote 
in her service, and that is the highest praise that it is in my 
power to give her or that I can think of. But I can not help 
entertaining a doubt, and having a certain grudge against 
Sancho Panza ; the doubt is this, that the aforesaid history 
declares that the said Sancho Panza, when he carried a letter 
on your worship’s behalf to the said lady Dulcinea, found her 
sifting a sack of wheat ; and more by token it says it was red 
wheat; a thing which makes me doubt the loftiness of her 
lineage. 

* Prov. 112 * A nautical metaphor ; keeping the lead going. 


CHAPTER XXXI L 


229 


To this Don Quixote made answer, Senora, your highness 
must know that everything or almost everything that happens 
to me transcends the ordinary limits of what happens to other 
knights-errant ; whether it be that it is directed by the in- 
scrutable will of destiny, or by the malice of some jealous en- 
chanter. ' Now it is an established fact that all or most famous 
knights-errant have some special gift, one that of being proof 
against enchantment, another that of being made of such 
invulnerable flesh that he can not be wounded, as was the 
famous Roland, one of the twelve peers of France, of whom it 
is related that he could not be wounded except in the sole of 
his left foot, and that it must be with the point of a stout pin 
and not with any other sort of weapon whatever ; and so, when 
Bernardo del Carpio slew him at Roncesvalles, finding that he 
could not wound him with steel, he lifted him up from the 
ground in his arms and strangled him, calling to mind season- 
ably the death which Hercules inflicted on Antaeus, the fierce 
giant that they say was the son of Terra. I would infer from 
what I have mentioned that perhaps 1 may have some gift of 
this kind, not that of being invulnerable, because experience 
has many times proved to me that I am of tender flesh and 
not at all impenetrable ; nor that of being proof against en- 
chantment, for I have already seen myself thrust into a cage, 
in which all the world would not have been able to confine me 
except by force of enchantments. But as I delivered myself 
from that one, I am inclined to believe that there is no other 
that can hurt me ; and so, these enchanters, seeing that they 
can not exert their -vile craft against my person, revenge them- 
selves on what I love most, and seek to rob me of life by 
maltreating that of Dulcinea in whom I live ; and therefore I 
am convinced that when my squire carried my message to her, 
they changed her into a common peasant girl, engaged in such 
a mean occupation as sifting wheat ; I have already said, how- 
ever, that that wheat was not red wheat, nor wheat at all, but 
grains of orient pearl. And as a proof of all this, I must tell 
your highnesses that, coming to El Toboso a short time back, 
I was altogether unable to discover the palace of Dulcinea ; 
and that the next day, though Sancho, my squir®, saw her in 
her own proper shape, which is the fairest in the world, to me 
she appeared to be a coarse, ill-favored, farm-wench, and by no 
means a well-spoken one, she who is propriety itself. And so, 
as I am not and, so far as one can judge, can not be enchanted, 


230 


DON QUIXOTE. 


she it is that is enchanted, that is smitten, that is altered, 
changed, and transformed ; in her have my enemies revenged 
themselves upon me, and for her shall I live in ceaseless tears, 
until I see her in her pristine state. I have mentioned this 
lest anybody should mind what Sancho said about Dulcinea’s 
winnowing or sifting ; for, as they changed her to me, it is no 
wonder if they changed her to him. Dulcinea is illustrious 
and well-born, and of one of the gentle families of El Toboso, 
which are many, ancient, and good. Therein, most assuredly, 
not small is the share of the peerless Dulcinea, through whom 
her town will be famous and celebrated in ages to come, as 
Troy was through Helen, and Spain through La Cava,^ though 
with a better title and tradition. For another thing ; I would 
have your graces understand that Sancho Panza is one of the 
drollest squires that ever served knight-errant; sometimes 
there is a simplicity about him so acute that it is an amusement 
to try and make out whether he is simple or sharp ; he has mis- 
chievous tricks that stamp him rogue, and blundering ways 
that prove him a booby ; he doubts everything and believes 
everything ; when I fancy he is on the point of coming down 
headlong from sheer stupidity, he comes out with something 
shrewd that sends him up to the skies. After all, I would 
not exchange him for another squire, though I were given a 
city to boot, and therefore I am in doubt whether it will be 
well to send him to the government your highness has be- 
stowed upon him ; though I perceive in him a certain aptitude 
for the work of governing, so that, with a little trimming of 
his understanding, he would manage any government as easily 
as the king does his taxes ; and moreover, we know already 
by ample experience that it does not require much cleverness 
or much learning to be a governor, for there are a hundred 
round about us that scarcely know how to read, and govern 
like ger-falcons.' The main point is that they should have 
good intentions and be desirous of doing right in all things, for 
they will never be at a loss for persons to advise and direct 
them in what they have to do, like those knight-governors 
who, being no lawyers, pronounce sentences with the aid of an 
assessor. My advice to him will be to take no bribe and sur- 

* The name given in the ballads to the daughter of Count Julian, 
seduced by Roderick, according to tradition. 

* To govern like a ger-falcon is a similitude repeatedly used by Don 
Quixote and Sancho. The precise drift is not very obvious. In the slang 
of the Germana gerifalte means a robber. 


CHAPTER XXXI L 


231 


render no right/ and I have some other little matters in 
reserve, that shall be produced in due season for Sancho’s bem 
efit and the advantage of the island he is to govern.’’ 

The duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point 
in their conversation, when they heard voices and a great hub- 
bub in the palace, and Sancho burst abruptly into the room 
all glowing with anger, with a straining-cloth by way of a 
bib, and followed by several servants, or, more properly speak- 
ing, kitchen-boys and other underlings, one of whom carried a 
small trough full of water, that from its color and impurity 
was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him 
and followed him everywhere he went, endeavoring with the 
utmost persistence to thrust it under his chin, while another 
kitchen-boy seemed anxious to wash his beard. 

“ What is all this, brothers ? ” asked the duchess. What 
is it ? What do you want to do to this good man ? What ! do 
you forget he is a governor-elect ? ” 

To which the barber kitchen-boy replied, The gentleman 
will not let himself be washed as is customary, and as my 
lord the duke and the senor his master have been.” 

“ Yes, I will,” said Sancho, in a great rage ; but I ’d like it 
to be with cleaner towels, clearer lye, and not such dirty 
hands ; for there ’s not so much difference between me and my 
master that he should be washed with angels’ water ^ and I 
with devil’s lye. The customs of countries and princes’ 
palaces are only good so long as they give no annoyance ; but 
the way of washing they have here is worse than doing pen- 
ance. I have a clean beard, and I don’t require to be re- 
freshed in that fashion, and whoever comes to wash me or 
touch a hair of my head, I mean to say my beard, with all due 
respect be it said, I ’ll give him a punch that will leave my 
fist sunk in his skull ; for cirimonies and soapings of this sort 
are more like jokes than the polite attentions of one’s host.” 

The duchess was ready to die with laughter when she saw 
Sancho’s rage and heard his words ; but it was no pleasure to 
Don Quixote to see him in such a sorry trim, with the dingy 
towel about him, and the hangers-on of the kitchen all round 
him ; so making a low bow to the duke and duchess, as if to 
ask their permission to speak, he addressed the rout in a 
dignified tone : Holloa, gentlemen ! you let that youth alone, 

> Prov. 51. 

* Water scented with rose, orange flower, thyme, and other perfumes. 


232 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and go back to where you came from, or anywhere else if you 
like; my squire is as clean as any other person, and those 
troughs are as bad as narrow thin-necked jars. to him ; ’ take my 
advice and leave him alone, for neither he nor I understand 
joking.’' 

Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, ^^Nay, 
let them come and try their jokes on the country bumpkin, for 
it’s about as likely I’ll stand them as that it’s now midnight ! 
Let them bring me a comb here, or what they please, and curry 
this beard of mine, and if they get anything out of it that 
offends against cleanliness, let them clip me to the skin.” 

Upon this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, Sancho 
Panza is right, and always will be in all he says ; he is clean, 
and, as he says himself, he does not require to be washed ; and 
if our ways do not please him, he is free to choose. Besides, 
you promoters of cleanliness have been excessively careless and 
thoughtless, I don’t know if I ought not to say audacious, to 
bring troughs and wooden utensils and kitchen dish-clouts, 
instead of basins and jugs of pure gold and towels of holland, 
to such a person and such a beard ; but, after all, you are ill- 
conditioned and ill-bred, and spiteful as you are, you can not 
help showing the grudge you have against the squires of 
knights-errant.” 

The impudent servitors, and even the seneschal who came 
with them, took the duchess to be speaking in earnest, so they 
removed the straining-cloth from Sancho’s neck, and with some- 
thing like shame and confusion of face went off all of them and 
left him ; whereupon he, seeing himself safe out of that extreme 
danger, as it seemed to him, ran and fell on his knees before 
the duchess, saying, “ From great ladies great favors may be 
looked for ; this which your grace has done me to-day can not 
be requited with less than wishing I was dubbed a knight- 
errant, to devote myself all the days of my life to the service 
of so exalted a lady. I am a laboring man, my name is Sancho 
Panza, I am married, I have children, and I am serving as a 
squire; if in any one of these ways I can serve your high- 
ness, I will not be longer in obeying than your grace in com- 
manding.” 

“ It is easy to see, Sancho,” replied the duchess, that you 
have learned to be polite in the school of politeness itself ; I 
mean to say it is easy to see that you have been nursed in the 
* These being probably unsatisfactory to drink out of. 


CHAPTER XXX III. 


233 


bosom of Senor Don Quixote, who is, of course, the cream of 
good breeding and flower of ceremony — or cirimony, as you 
would say yourself. Fair be the fortunes of such a master and 
such a servant, the one the cynosure of knight-errantry, the 
other the star of squirely fidelity ! Rise, Sancho, my friend ; I 
will repay your courtesy by taking care that my lord the duke 
makes good to you the promised gift of the government as soon 
as possible.” 

With this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote 
retired to take his midday sleep ; but the duchess begged Sancho, 
unless he had a very great desire to go to sleep, to come and 
spend the afternoon with her and her damsels in a very cool 
chamber. Sancho replied that, though he certainly had the 
habit of sleeping four or five hours in the heat of the day in 
summer, to serve her excellence he would try with all his might 
not to sleep even one that day, and that he would come in 
obedience to her command, and with that he went off. The 
duke gave fresh orders with respect to treating Don Quixote as 
a knight-errant, without departing in the smallest particular 
from the style in which, as the stories tell us, they used to 
treat the knights of old. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND 
HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH 
READING AND NOTING. 

The history records that Sancho did not sleep that after- 
noon, but in order to keep his word came, before he had well 
done dinner, to visit the duchess, who, finding enjoyment in 
listening to him, made him sit down beside her on a low seat, 
though Sancho, out of pure good breeding, wanted not to sit 
down ; the duchess, however, told him he was to sit down as 
governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was worthy 
of even the chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador.^ 
Sancho shrugged his shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all 
the duchess’s damsels and duennas gathered round him, wait- 

* The magnificent chair in which, according to the poem and the 
ballads, he took his seat at the Cprtes of Toledo. 


234 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ing in profound silence to hear what he would say. It was 
the duchess, however, who spoke first, saying, ^^Now that we 
are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear us, I 
should be glad if the senor governor would relieve me of cer- 
tain doubts I have, rising out of the history of the great Don 
-Quixote that is now in print. One is : inasmuch as worthy 
Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean the lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso, nor took Don Quixote’s letter to her, for it was left in 
the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena, how did he dare 
to invent the answer and all that about finding her sifting 
wheat, the whole story being a deception and falsehood, and 
so much to the prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea’s good name, 
a thing that is not at all becoming the character and fidelity 
of a good squire ? ” 

At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got 
up from his chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent 
and his finger on his lips, went all round the room lifting up 
the hangings; and this done, he came back to his seat and 
said, ^^Now, senora, that I have seen that there is no one 
except the bystanders listening to us on the sly, I will answer 
what you have asked me, and all you may ask me, without 
fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is, that 
for my own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark 
mad, though sometimes he says things that, to my mind, and 
indeed everybody’s that listens to him, are so wise, and run 
in such a straight furrow, that Satan himself could not have 
said them better; but for all that, really, and beyond all 
question, it’s my firm belief he is cracked. Well, then, as 
this is clear to my mind, I can venture to make him believe 
things that have neither head nor tail, like that affair of the 
answer to the letter, and that other of six or eight days ago, 
which is not yet in history, that is to say, the affair of the 
enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for I made him believe 
she is enchanted, though there ’s no more truth in it than over 
the hills of tjbeda.” > 

* Prov. 234. A somewhat obscure popular phrase, rather than prov- 
erb, used to describe that which has nothing whatever to do with the 
subject in hand. Ubeda is a small town in the upper valley of the 
Guadalquivir {v. map), and some explain the phrase by saying that the 
country round it being very hilly, travellers are liable to lose their way 
there. Others say the explanation is that there are no hills there at all. 
Neither statement is correct ; the country is not particularly hilly or flat, 
nor is there any reason why any one should lose his way there. Jervas’s 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


235 


The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment 
or deception, so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had 
happened, and his hearers were not a little amused by it ; and 
then resuming, the duchess said, ^^In consequence of what 
worthy Sancho has told me, a doubt starts up in my mind, 
and there comes a kind of whisper to my ear that says, ‘ If 
Don Quixote be mad, crazy, and cracked, and Sancho Panza 
his squire knows it, and, notwithstanding, serves and follows 
him, and goes trusting to his empty promises, there can be no 
doubt he must be still madder and sillier than his master ; and 
that being so, it will be cast in your teeth, senora duchess, if 
you give the said Sancho an island to govern ; for how will 
he who does not know how to govern himself know how to 
govern others ? ’ ” 

“ By God, senora,” said Sancho, but that doubt comes 
timely ; but your grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or 
as you like ; for I know what you say is true, and if I were 
wise I should have left my master long ago ; but this was my 
fate, this was my bad luck ; I can’t help it, I must follow 
him ; we ’re from the same village, I have eaten his bread, I ’m 
fond of him, I ’m grateful, he gave me his ass-colts, and above 
all I ’m faithful ; so it ’s quite impossible for anything to separ 
rate us, except the pickaxe and shovel. And if your highness 
does not like to give me the government you promised, God 
made me without it, and maybe your not giving it to me will 
be all the better for my conscience, for fool as I am I know 
the proverb ^ to her hurt the ant got wings,’ ^ and it may be 
that Sancho the squire will get to heaven sooner than Sancho 
the governor. ‘They make as good bread here as in Prance,’ 
and ‘ by night all cats are gray,’ and ‘ a hard case enough his, 
who has n’t broken his fast at two in the afternoon,’ and 
‘ there ’s no stomach a hand’s breadth bigger than another,’ 
and the same can be filled ‘ with straw or hay,’ as the saying 
is, and ‘ the little birds of the field have God for their pur- 
veyor and caterer,’ and ‘ four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one 
warmer than four of Segovia broadcloth,’ and ‘ when we quit 
this world and are put underground the prince travels by as 
narrow a path as the journeyman,’ and ‘ the Pope’s body does 

suggestion is more probable, that the words are the beginning of some 
old song or story, and are equivalent to saying that the remark made baa 
as much to do with the question as the old song, " Over the hills,” etc. 

' Prov. 11^. 


236 


DON QUIXOTE. 


not take up more feet of earth than the sacristan’s/ ^ for all 
that the one is higher than the other ; for when we go to our 
graves we all pack ourselves up and make ourselves small, or 
rather they pack us up and make us small in spite of us, and 
then — good night to us. And I say once more, if your lady- 
ship does not like to give me the island because I ’m a fool, 
like a wise man I will take care to give myself no trouble 
about it ; I have heard say that ^ behind the cross there ’s the 
devil,’ and that ^ all that glitters is not gold,’ ^ and that from 
among the oxen, and the ploughs, and the yokes, Wamba the 
husbandman was taken to be made King of Spain, and from 
among brocades, and pleasures, and riches, Roderick was taken 
to be devoured by adders, if the verses of the old ballads 
don’t lie.” 

“ To be sure they don’t lie ! ” exclaimed Dona Rodriguez, 
the duenna, who was one of the listeners. Why, there ’s a 
ballad that says they put King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full 
of toads, and adders, and lizards, and that two days afterwards 
the King, in a plaintive, feeble voice, cried out from within 
the tomb — 

They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now, 

There where I most did sin.^ 

And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say 
he would rather be a laboring man than a king, if vermin are 
to eat him.” 

The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of 
her duenna, or wondering at the language and proverbs of 
Sancho, to whom she said, Worthy Sancho knows very well 
that when once a knight has made a promise he strives to keep 
it, though it should cost him his life. My lord and husband 
the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is none the less a 
knight for that reason, and will keep his word about the 
promised island, in spite of the envy and malice of the world. 
Let Sancho be of good cheer ; for when he least expects it he 
will find himself seated on .the throne of his island and seat of 
dignity, and will take possession of his government that he 

• Provs. 172, 105, 72, 98, 166, 20, 63, 192, and 189. 

® Provs. 75 and 161. 

3 From a modernized version, apparently, of the ballad, Despues que el 
rey don Rodrigo. — Cancionero de Romances., Antwerp, s a. Duran, 
Romancer 0., No. 606. 


CHAPTER XXXI I L 


237 


.jaay discard it for another of three-bordered brocade.^ The 
charge I give him is to be careful how he governs his vassals, 
bearing in mind that they are all loyal and well-born.’’ 

“ As to governing them well,” said Sancho, there ’s no need 
of charging me to do that, for I ’m kind-hearted by nature, and 
full of compassion for the poor ; ‘ there ’s no stealing the loaf 
from him who kneads and bakes ; ’ * and by my faith it won’t 
do to throw false dice with me ; I am an old dog, and I know 
all about ‘ tus, tus ; ’ ^ I can be wide awake if need be, and I 
don’t let clouds come before my eyes, for I know where the 
shoe pinches me ; ^ I say so, because with me the good will 
have support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor 
access. And it seems to me that, in governments, to make 
a beginning is everything; and maybe, after having been 
governor a fortnight, I ’ll take kindly to the work and know 
more about it than the field labor I have been brought up to. 

You are right, Sancho,” said the duchess, for no one is 
born ready taught, and the bishops are made out of men and 
not out of stones. But to return to the subject we were dis- 
cussing just now, the enchantment of the lady Dulcinea, I look 
upon it as certain, and something more than evident, that 
Sancho’s idea of practising a deception upon his master, making 
him believe that the peasant girl was Dulcinea and that if he 
did not recognize her it must be because she was enchanted, 
was all a device of one of the enchanters that persecute Don 
Quixote. For in truth and earnest, I know from good authority 
that the coarse country wench w'ho jumped up on the ass was 
and is Dulcinea del Toboso, and that worthy Sancho, though 
he fancies himself the deceiver, is the one that is deceived ; 
and that there is no more reason to doubt the truth of this, 
than of anything else we never s^w. Senor Sancho Panza 
must know that we too have enchanters here that are well dis- 
posed to us, and tell us what goes on in the world, plainly and 
distinctly, without subterfuge or deception; and believe me, 
Sancho, that agile country lass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, 
who is as much enchanted as the mother that bore her ; and 
when we least expect it, we shall see her in her own proper 
fornj, and then Sancho will be disabused of the error he is 
under at present.” 

* The passage is apparently corrupt. Don Juan Calderon defends the 
text in his Cervantes Vindicado ; but it cannot be said that his vindication 
is satisfactory. 

* Prov. 115. ^ Prov. 183. * Prov. 252. 


288 


DON QUIXOTE. 


All that ’s very possible,” said Sancho Panza ; and no'W 
I ’m willing to believe what my master says about what he saw 
in the cave of Montesinos, where he says he saw the lady Dul- 
cinea del Toboso in the very same dress and apparel that I said 
I had seen her. in when I enchanted her all to please myself. 
It must be all exactly the other way, as your ladyship says ; 
because it is impossible to suppose that out of my poor wit 
such a cunning trick could be concocted in a moment, nor do I 
think my master is so mad that by my weak and feeble per- 
suasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all reason. 
But, senora, your excellence must not therefore think me ill- 
disposed, for a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts 
and plots of those vile enchanters. I invented all that to es- 
cape my master’s scolding, and not with any intention of hurt- 
ing him ; and if it has turned out differently, there is a God in 
heaven who judges our hearts.” 

“ That is true,” said the duchess ; but tell me, Sancho, 
what is this you say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should 
like to know.” 

Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has 
been said already touching that adventure, and having heard 
it the duchess said, “ From this occurrence it may be inferred 
that, as the great Don Quixote says he saw there the same 
country wench Sancho saw on the way from El Toboso, it is, 
no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some very active and 
exceedingly busy enchanters about.” 

“ So I say,” said Sancho, and if my lady Dulcinea is en- 
chanted, so much the worse for her, and I ’m not going to pick 
a quarrel with my master’s enemies, who seem to be many 
and spiteful. The truth is that the one I saw was a country 
wench, and I set her down to be a country wench ; and if that 
was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my door, nor should I be 
called to answer for it or take the consequences. But they 
must go nagging at me every step — ^ Sancho said it, Sancho 
did it, Sancho here, Sancho there,’ as if Sancho was nobody at 
all, and not that same Sancho Panza that’s now going all 
over the world in books, so Samson Carrasco told me, and he ’s 
at any rate one that ’s a bachelor of Salamanca ; and people of 
that sort can’t lie, except when the whim seizes them or they 
have some very good reason for it. So there ’s no occasion for 
anybody to quarrel with me ; and then I have a good char- 
acter, and, as I have heard my master say, ‘ a good name is 


CHAPTER jyXXIII. 


239 


better than great riches ; ’ ^ let them only stick me into this 
government and they ’ll see wonders, for one who has been a 
good squire will be a good governor.” 

All worthy Sancho’s observations,” said the duchess, are 
Catonian sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of 
Michael Verino himself, who fiorentibus occidit annis.'^ In 
fact, to speak in his own style, ^ under a bad cloak there ’s 
often a good drinker.’ ” ® 

Indeed, sehora,” said Sancho, I never yet drank out of 
wickedness ; from thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing 
of the hypocrite in me ; I drink when I ’m inclined, or, if I ’m 
not inclined, when they offer it to me, so as not to look either 
strait-laced or ill-bred ; for when a friend drinks one’s health 
what heart can be so hard as not to return it ? But if I put 
on my shoes I don’t dirty them ; ^ besides, squires to knights- 
errant mostly drink water, for they are always wandering 
among woods, forests and meadows, mountains and crags, 
without a drop of wine to be had if they gave their eyes for it.” 

“ So I believe,” said the duchess ; and now let Sancho go 
and take his sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater 
length, and settle how he may soon go and stick himself into 
the government, as he says.” 

Sancho once more kissed the duchess’s hand, and entreated 
her to be so kind as to let good care be taken of his Dapple, 
for he was the light of his eyes. 

What is Dapple ? ” said the duchess. 

“ My ass,-” said Sancho, “ which, not to mention him by that 
name, I ’m accustomed to call Dapple ; I begged this lady 
duenna here to take care of him when I came into the castle, 
and she got as angry as if I had said she was ugly or old, 
though it ought to be more natural and proper for duennas to 
feed asses than to ornament chambers. God bless me ! what 
a spite a gentleman of my village had against these ladies ! ” 

He must have been some clown,” said Dona Rodriguez the 
duenna ; “ for if he had been a gentleman and well-born he 
would have exalted them higher than the horns of the moon.” 

» Prov. 156. 

* Catonian sentences, i.e. in the style of Dionysius Cato. Michael 
Verino was the author of a book entitled De puerorum morihus disticha^ 
somewhat in the style of Cato’s Disticha^ and, like it, a well-known 
school-book at the time. The Latin quoted by the duchess is from the 
epitaph on him by Politian. 

^ Prov. 36. 

^ A popular way of describing drinking without getting drunk. 


240 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That will do/’ said the duchess ; no more of this ; hush, 
Dona Kodriguez, and let Senor Panza rest easy and leave the 
treatment of Dapple in my charge, for as he is a treasure of 
Sancho’s, I ’ll put him on the apple of my eye.” 

“ It will be enough for him to be in the stable*” said Sancho, 
for neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple 
of your highness’s eye, and I ’d as soon stab myself as consent 
to it ; for though my master says that in civilities it is better to 
lose by a card too many than a card too few,’ when it comes to 
civilities to asses we must mind what we are about and keep 
within due bounds.” 

“ Take him to your government, Sancho,” said the duchess, 
and there you will be able to make as much of him as you 
like, and even release him from work and pension him off.” 

“ Don’t think, senora duchess, that you have said anything 
absurd,” said Sancho ; I have seen more than two asses go to 
governments, and for me to take mine with me would be noth- 
ing new.” 

Sancho’s words made the duchess laugh again and gave her 
fresh amusement, and dismissing him to sleep she went away to 
tell the duke the conversation she had had with him, and 
between them they plotted and arranged to play a joke upon 
Don Quixote that was to be a rare one and entirely in knight- 
errantry style, and in that same style they practised several 
upon him, so much in keeping and so clever that they form 
the best adventures this great history contains. 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH 
THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL 
TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN 
THIS BOOK. 

Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the 
conversation of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more 
bent than ever upon the plan they had of practising some jokes 
upon them that should have the look and appearance of advent- 
ures, they took as their basis of action what Don Quixote had 
’ Frov. 39. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


241 


already told them about the cave of Montesinos,^ in order to 
play him a famous one. But what the duchess marvelled at 
above all was that Sancho’s simplicity could be so great as to 
make him believe as absolute truth that Dulcinea had been 
enchanted, when it was he himself who had been the enchanter 
and trickster in the business. Having, therefore, instructed 
their servants in everything they were to do, six days after- 
wards they took him out to hunt, with as great a retinue of 
huntsmen and beaters as a crowned king could take. 

They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and San- 
cho with another of the finest green cloth ; but Don Quixote 
declined to put his on, saying that he must soon return to the 
hard pursuit of arms, and could not carry wardrobes or stores 
with him. Sancho, however, took what they gave him, mean- 
ing to sell it the first opportunity he had. 

The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed him- 
self, and Sancho arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple 
(for he would not give him up though they offered him a 
horse), he placed himself in the midst of the troop of hunts- 
men. The duchess came out splendidly attired, and Don 
Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her 
palfrey, though the duke wanted not to allow him ; and at last 
they reached a wood that lay between two high mountains, 
where, after occupying various posts, ambushes, and paths, 
and distributing the party in different positions, the hunt 
began with great noise, shouting, and hallooing, so that, be- 
tween the baying of the hounds and the blowing of the horns, 
they could not hear one another. The duchess dismounted, 
and with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted herself where 
she knew the wild boars were in the habit of passing. The 
duke and Don Quixote likewise dismounted and placed them- 
selves one each side of her. Sancho took up a position in the 
rear of all without dismounting from Dapple, whom he dared 
not desert lest some mischief should befall him. Scarcely 
had they taken their stand in a line with several of the-ir 
servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed by the 
hounds and followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, 
grinding his teeth and tusks, and scattering foam from his 
mouth. As soon as he saw him Don Quixote, bracing his 

* Don Quixote told them nothing about the cave of Montesinos : all 
they knew of it was through Sancho. Hartzenbusch inserts the correc* 
tion. 


VOL. II. — 16 


242 


DON QUIXOTE, 


shield on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced to meet 
him ; the duke with his boar-spear did the same ; but the 
duchess would have gone in front of them all had not the duke 
prevented her. Sancho alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of 
the mighty beast, took to his heels as hard as he could and 
strove in vain to mount a tall oak. As he was clinging to - a 
branch, however, half-way up in his struggle to reach the top, 
the bough, such was his ill-luck and hard fate, gave way, and 
caught in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he hung sus- 
pended in the air unable to reach the ground. Finding him- 
self in this position, and that the green coat was beginning to 
tear, and reflecting that if the flerce animal came that way he 
might be able to get at him, he began to utter such cries, and 
call for help so earnestly, that all who heard him and did not 
see him felt sure he must be in the teeth of some wild beast. 
In the end the tusked boar fell pierced by the blades of the 
many spears they held in front of him ; and Don Quixote, 
turning round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them 
that it was he, saw him hanging from the oak head down- 
wards, with Dapple, who did not forsake him in his distress, 
close beside him ; and Cid Hamet observes that he seldom saw 
Sancho Panza without seeing Dapple, or Dapple without seeing 
Sancho Panza ; such was their attachment and loyalty one to 
the other. Don Quixote went over and unhooked Sancho, who, 
as soon as he found himself released and on the ground, 
looked at the rent in his hunting-coat and was grieved to the 
heart, for he thought he had got a patrimonial estate in that 
suit. 

Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back 
of a mule, and having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and 
branches of myrtle, they bore it away as the spoils of victory 
to some large field-tents which had been pitched in the middle 
of the wood, where they found the tables laid and dinner 
served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was easy 
to see the rank and magnificence of those who had provided 
it. Sancho, as he showed the rents in his torn suit to the 
duchess, observed, If we had been hunting hares, or after 
small birds, my coat would have been safe from being in the 
plight it ^s in ; I don’t know what pleasure one can find in 
lying in wait for an animal that may take your life with his 
tusk if he gets at you. I recollect having heard an old ballad 
sung that says, 


CHAPTER XXXIV, 


243 


By bears be thou devoured, as erst 
Was famous Favila.” 

That,’’ said Don Quixote, was a Gothic king, who, going 
a hunting, was devoured by a bear.” ^ 

J ust so,” said Sancho ; and I would not have kings and 
princes expose themselves to such dangers for the sake of a 
pleasure which, to my mind, ought not to be one, as it consists 
in killing an animal that has done no harm whatever.” 

‘‘ Quite the contrary, Sancho ; you are wrong there,” said the 
duke ; for hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings 
and princes than for anybody else. The chase is the emblem 
of war ; it has its stratagems, wiles, and crafty devices for over- 
coming the enemy in safety ; in it extreme cold and intolerable 
heat have to be borne, indolence and sleep are desj)ised, the 
bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of him who engages 
in it are made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit which may 
be followed without injury to any one and with enjoyment to 
many ; and the best of it is, it is not for everybody, as field- 
sports of other sorts are, except hawking, which also is only 
for kings and great lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore, 
Sancho, and when you are governor take to hunting, and you 
will find the good of it.” 2 

^^Nay,” said Sancho,. “the good governor should have a 
broken leg and keep at home ; * it would be a nice thing if, 
after people had been at the trouble of coming to look for him 
on business, the governor were to be away in the forest enjoy- 
ing himself ; the government would go on badly in that fashion. 
By my faith, senor, hunting and amusements are more fit for 
idlers than for governors ; what 1 intend to amuse myself with, 
is playing all fours ^ at Eastertime, and bowls on Sundays and 

* Favila was the son and successor of Pelayo. Don Quixote is hardly 
correct in describing him as a Gothic king, for the Gothic kings, properly 
so-called, ended with Roderick. 

* Vereis como os vale un pan por ciento ; literally, "you ’ll see it will be 
worth a loaf per cent to you.” There has been a good deal of discussion 
about this phrase. Critics, assuming that, as it stands, it must be wrong, 
have suggested various new readings, such as tan por ciento^ p amp or cino, 
and the like ; forgetting, apparently, that Cervantes uses it again in pre- 
cisely the same form and way in chapter Ixxi. There can be no doubt it 
is some old popular, perhaps local, phrase, now obsolete, but in use in his 
day in the sense I have given. 

^Prov. 148. Sancho adapts the proverb to his argument. 

^ Triunfo envidado ; "brag” would be a closer translation, but the 
game seems to have been more like "all fours.” 


244 


DON QUIXOTE. 


holidays ; for these huntings don t suit my condition or agree 
with my conscience/’ 

/‘Grod grant it may turn out so/’ said the duke; ^‘because 
it ’s a long step from saying to doing.” ‘ 

Be that as it may,” said Sancho, ^ pledges don’t distress 
a good paymaster,’ and ‘ he whom God helps does better than 
he who gets up early,’ and ^ it ’s the tripes that carry the feet 
and not the feet the tripes ; ’ * I mean to say that if God gives 
me help and I do my duty honestly, no doubt I ’ll govern better 
than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a finger in my mouth, 
and they ’ll see whether I can bite or not.” 

The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed 
Sancho ! ” exclaimed Don Quixote ; when will the day come — 
as I have often said to thee — when I shall hear thee make one 
single coherent, rational remark without proverbs ? Pray, your 
highnesses, leave this fool alone, for he will grind your souls 
between, not to say two, but two thousand proverbs, dragged in 
as much in season, and as much to the purpose as — may God 
grant as much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to 
them ! ” 

Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, though more 
in number than the Greek Commander’s,® are not therefore less 
to be esteemed for the conciseness of the maxims. Por my 
own part, I can say they give me more pleasure than others 
that may be better brought in and more seasonably intro- 
duced.” 

In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the 
tent into the wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of 
the posts and hiding-places, and then night closed in, not, how- 
ever, as brilliantly or tranquilly as might have been expected 
at the season, for it was then midsummer ; but bringing with it 
a kind of haze that greatly aided the project of the duke and 
duchess ; and thus, as night began to fall, and a little after 
twilight set in, suddenly the whole wood on all four sides 
seemed to be on fire, and shortly after, here, there, on all sides, 
a vast number of trumpets and other military instruments were 

1 Prov. 76. =« Provs. 164, 84, and 232. 

^ i.e. Hernan (or Fernan) Nunez, of the noble family of the Guzmans, 
professor of Greek at Alcala and afterwards at Salamanca, and one of the 
greatest scholars of the sixteenth century. He made a collection of prov- 
erbs which was published in 1555, after his death. He was Commander 
of the Order of Santiago, and hence commonly called the Greek Com- 
mander, El Comendador Griego^ a title absurdly translated '' Greek com^ 
mentator” by Jervas, Viardot, Damas Hinard, and others. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


245 


heard, as if several troops of cavalry were passing through the 
wood. The blaze of the fire and the noise of the warlike 
instruments almost blinded the eyes and deafened the ears of 
those that stood by, and indeed of all who were in the wood. 
Then there were heard repeated lelilies ^ after the fashion of 
the Moors when they rush to battle ; trumpets and clarions 
brayed, drums beat, fifes played, so unceasingly and so fast that 
he could not have had any senses who did not lose them with 
the confused din of so many instruments. The duke was as- 
tounded, the duchess amazed, Don Quixote wondering, Sancho 
Panza trembling, and indeed, even they who were aware of the 
cause were frightened. In their fear, silence fell upon them, 
and a postilion, in the guise of a demon, passed in front of 
them, blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a hugh hollow horn that gave 
out a horrible hoarse note. 

“ Ho there ! brother courier,’’ cried the duke, “ who are you ? 
Where are you going ? What troops are these that seem to 
be passing through the wood ? ” 

To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, 
^ I am the devil ; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha ; 
those who are coming this way are six troops of enchanters, 
who are bringing on a triumphal car the peerless Dulcinea 
del Toboso ; she comes under enchantment, together with the 
gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give instructions to Don 
Quixote as to how she, the said lady, may be disenchanted.” 

If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance 
indicates,” said the duke, you would have known the said 
knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, for you have him here 
before you.” 

By God and upon my conscience,” said the devil, “ I pever 
observed it, for my mind is occupied with so many different 
things that I was forgetting the main thing I came about.” 

This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Chris- 
tian,” said Sancho ; for if he was n’t he would n’t swear by 
God and his conscience ; I feel sure now there must be good 
souls even in hell itself.” 

Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote 
and said, ‘‘ The unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends 
me to thee, the Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in 
their claws), bidding me tell thee to wait for him wherever 
I may find thee, as he brings with him her whom they call 
* The cry of la AHA ila AllSi — " there is no God but God.” 


246 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may show thee what is needful 
in order to disenchant her ; and as I came for no more I need 
stay no longer ; demons of my sort be with thee, and good 
angels with these gentles ; ’’ and so saying he blew his huge 
horn, turned about and went off without waiting for a reply 
from any one. 

They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don 
Quixote ; Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they 
would have it that Dulcinea was enchanted ; Don Quixote be- 
cause he could not feel sure whether what had happened to 
him in the cave of Montesinos was true or not ; and as he was 
deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, Do you mean 
to wait, Senor Don Quixote ? ’’ 

Why not ? ’’ replied he ; here will I wait, fearless and 
firm, though all hell should come to attack me.’’ 

AVell, then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like 
the last, I ’ll wait here as much as in Flanders,” said Sancho. 

Night now closed in more completely, and many lights be- 
gan to flit through the wood, just as those fiery exhalations 
from the earth, that look like shooting stars to our eyes, flit 
through the heavens ; a frightful noise, too, was heard, like 
that made by the solid wheels the ox-carts usually have, by 
the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they say, the bears and 
wolves are put to flight, if there happen to be any where they 
are passing.^ In addition to all this commotion, there came a 
further disturbance to increase the tumult, for now it seemed 
as if in truth, on all four sides of the wood, four encounters or 
battles were going on at the same time ; in one quarter re- 
sounded the dull noise of a terrible cannonade, in another 
numberless muskets were being discharged, the shouts of the 
combatants sounded almost close at hand, and farther away 
the Moorish lelilies were raised again and again. In a word, 
the bugles, the horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the 
cannon, the musketry, and above all the tremendous noise 
of tne carts, all made up together a din so confused and ter- 
rific that ])on Quixote had need to summon up all his courage 
to brave it ; but Sancho’s gave way, and he fell fainting on the 
skirt of the duchess’s robe, who let him lie there and promptly 
bade them throw water in his face. This was done, and he 

* In the carts described wheels and axle are all in one piece. They are 
in use to this day in the Asturias, and their creaking may be heard on a 
still evening miles away. The country folk there maintain it has the 
effect Cervantes mentions. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


24T 


came to himself by the time that one of the carts with the 
creaking wheels reached the spot. It was drawn by four plod- 
ding oxen all covered with black housings ; on each horn they 
had fixed a large lighted wax taper, and on the top of the cart 
was constructed a raised seat, on which sat a venerable old 
man with a beard whiter than the very snow, and so long that 
it fell below his waist ; he was dressed in a long robe of black 
buckram; for as the cart was thickly set with a multitude of 
candles it was easy to make out everything that was on it. 
Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buckram, 
with countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen 
them, shut his eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as 
the cart came opposite the spot the old man rose from his lofty 
seat, and standing up said in a loud voice, I am the sage Lir- 
gandeo,^’ and without another word the cart then passed on. 

Behind it came another of the same form, with another aged 
man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no less 
solemn than that of the first, I am the sage Alquife, the 
great friend of Urganda the Unknown,” and passed on. Then 
another cart came by at the same pace, but the occupant of the 
throne was not old like the others, but a man stalwart and 
robust, and of a forbidding countenance, who as he came up 
said in a voice far hoarser and more devilish, “ I am the en- 
chanter Archelaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis of Gaul and 
all his kindred,” and then passed on. Having gone a short 
distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of 
their wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not 
noise, but sound of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho 
was glad, taking it to be a good sign ; and said he to the duch- 
ess, from whom he did not stir a step, for an instant, Senora, 
where there ’s music there canT be mischief.” * 

“ Nor where there are lights and it ’s bright,” said the duch- 
ess ; to which Sancho replied, Fire gives light, and it ^s bright 
where there are bonfires, as we see by those that are all around 
us, and perhaps may burn us ; but music is a sign of mirth and 
merry-making.” 

“ That remains to be seen,” said Don Quixote, who was lis- 
tening to all that passed ; and he was right, as is shown in the 
following chapter. 


‘ Prov. IB2. 


248 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON 
QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, 
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS. 

They saw advancing towards them, to the sound of this 
pleasing music, what they call a triumphal car, drawn by six 
gray mules with white linen housings, on each of which was 
mounted a penitent,^ robed also in white, with a large lighted 
wax taper in his hand. The car was twice or, perhaps, three 
times as large as the former ones, and in front and on the sides 
stood twelve more penitents, all as white as snow and all with 
lighted tapers, a spectacle to excite fear as well as wonder ; 
and on a raised throne was seated a nymph draped in a multi- 
tude of silver-tissue veils with an embroidery of countless gold 
spangles glittering all over them, that made her appear, if not 
richly, at least brilliantly, apparelled. She had her face 
covered with thin transparent sendal, the texture of which did 
not prevent the fair features of a maiden from being distin- 
guished, while the numerous lights made it possible to judge 
of her beauty and of her years, which seemed to be not less 
than seventeen but not to have yet reached twenty. Beside 
her was a figure in a robe of state, as they call it, reaching 
to the feet, while the head was covered with a black veil. But 
the instant the car was opposite the duke and duchess and Don 
Quixote the music of the clarions ceased, and then that of the 
lutes and harps on the car, and the figure in the robe rose up, 
and flinging it apart and removing the veil from its face, dis- 
closed to their eyes the shape of Death itself, fleshless and 
hideous, at which sight Don Quixote felt uneasy, Sancho 
frightened, and the duke and duchess displayed a certain trepi- 
dation. Having risen to its feet, this living death, in a sleepy 
voice and with a tongue hardly awake, held forth as follows : 

I am that Merlin who the legends say 

The devil had for father, and the lie 

Hath gathered credence with the lapse of time. 

Of magic prince, of Zoroastric lore 

* Disciplinante de luz : one in the costume of the disciplinants who used 
to walk in procession in Holy Week. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


249 


Monarch and treasurer, with jealous eye 

I view the efforts of the age to hide 

The gallant deeds of doughty errant knights, 

Who are, and ever have been, dear to me. 

Enchanters and magicians and their kind 
Are mostly hard of heart ; not so am I ; 

Eor mine is tender, soft, compassionate. 

And its delight is doing good to all. 

In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis, 

Where, tracing mystic lines and characters, 

My soul abideth now, there came to me 
The sorrow-laden plaint of her, the fair, 

The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso. 

I knew of her enchantment and her fate, 

Erom high-born dame to peasant wench transformed ; 
And touched with pity, first I turned the leaves 
Of countless volumes of my devilish craft. 

And then, in this grim grisly skeleton 
Myself incasing, hither have I come 
To show where lies the fitting remedy 
To give relief in such a piteous case. 

O thou, the pride and pink of all that wear 
The adamantine steel ! 0 shining light, 

0 beacon, polestar, path and guide of all 
Who, scorning slumber and the lazy down, 

Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms ! 

To thee, great hero who all praise transcends, 

La Mancha’s lustre and Iberia’s star, 

Don Quixote, wise as brave, to thee I say — 

Eor peerless Dulcinea del Toboso 
Her pristine form and beauty to regain, 

’T is needful that thy esquire Sancho shall. 

On his own sturdy buttocks bared to heaven. 

Three thousand and three hundred lashes lay. 

And they that smart and sting and hurt him well. 

Thus have the authors of her woe resolved. 

And this is, gentles, wherefore I have come. 

^ By all that ’s good,” exclaimed Sancho at this, I ’ll just 
as soon give myself three stabs with a dagger as three, not to 
say three thousand, lashes. The devil take such a way of dis- 
enchanting ! I don’t see what my backside has got to do with 


250 


DON QUIXOTE. 


enchantments. By God, if Senor Merlin has not found out 
some other way of disenchanting the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, 
she may go to her grave enchanted.’’ 

But I ’ll take you, Don Clown stuffed with garlic,” said 
Don Quixote, and tie you to a tree as naked as when your 
mother brought you forth, and give you, not to say three thou- 
sand three hundred, but six thousand six hundred lashes, and 
so well laid on that they won’t be got rid of if you try three 
thousand three hundred times ; don’t answer me a word or I ’ll 
tear your soul out.” 

On hearing this Merlin said, That will not do, for the lashes 
worthy Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free 
will and not by force, and at whatever time he pleases, for 
there is no fixed limit assigned to him; but it is permitted 
him, if he likes to commute by half the pain of this whipping, 
to let them be given by the hand of another, though it may be 
somewhat weighty.” 

^^Not a hand, my own or anybody else’s, weighty or weigh- 
able, shall touch me,” said Sancho. Was it I that gave birth 
to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, that my backside is to pay for 
the sins of her eyes ? My master, indeed, that ’s a part of her 
— for he ’s always calling her ‘ my life ’ and ^ my soul,’ and his 
stay and prop — may and ought to whip himself for her and 
take all the trouble required for her disenchantment. But for 
me to whip myself ! Abernuncio ! ” ^ 

As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver 
that was at the side of Merlin’s ghost stood up, and removing 
the thin veil from her face disclosed one that seemed to all 
something more than exceedingly beautiful ; and with a mascu- 
line freedom from embarrassment and in a voice not very like 
a lady’s, addressing Sancho directly, said, Thou wretched 
squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork tree, with bowels of 
flint and pebbles ; if, thou impudent thief, they bade thee throw 
thyself down from some lofty tower ; if, enemy of mankind, 
they asked thee to swallow a dozen of toads, two of lizards, 
and three of adders ; if they wanted thee to slay thy wife and 
children with a sharp murderous cimeter, it would be no wonder 
for thee to show thyself stubborn and squeamish. But to 
make a piece of work about three thousand three hundred 
lashes, what every poor little charity -boy gets every month — 
it is enough to amaze, astonish, astound the compassionate 
* For ahrenuncio. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


251 


bowels of all who hear it, nay, all who come to hear it in the 
course of time. Turn, 0 miserable, hard-hearted animal, turn, 
I say, those timorous owl’s eyes upon these of mine that are 
compared to radiant stars, and thou wilt see them weeping 
trickling streams and rills, and tracing furrows, tracks, and 
paths over the fair fields of my cheeks. Let it move thee, 
crafty, ill-conditioned monster, to see my blooming youth — 
still in its teens, for I am not yet twenty — wasting and wither- 
ing away beneath the husk of a rude peasant wench ; and if I 
do not appear in that shape now, it is a special favor Senor 
Merlin here has granted me, to the sole end that my beauty 
may soften thee ; for the tears of beauty in distress turn rocks 
into cotton and tigers into ewes. Lay on to that hide of thine, 
thou great untamed brute, rouse up thy lusty vigor that only 
urges thee to eat and eat, and set free the softness of my flesh, 
the gentlepess of my nature, and the fairness of my face. And 
if thou wilt not relent or come to reason for me, do so for the 
sake of that poor knight thou hast beside thee ; thy master I 
mean, whose soul I can this moment see, how he has it stuck 
in his throat not ten fingers from his lips, and only waiting 
for thy inflexible or yielding reply to make its escape by his 
mouth or go back again into his stomach.” 

Don Quixote on hearing this felt his throat, and turning to 
the duke he said, By God, senor, Dulcinea says true, I have 
my soul stuck here in my throat like the nut of a crossbow.” ^ 

What say you to this, Sancho ? ” said the duchess. 

I say, senora,” returned Sancho, what I said before ; as 
for the lashes, abernuncio ! ” 

Abrenuncio, you should say, Sancho, and not as you do,” 
said the duke. 

Let me alone, your highness,” said Sancho. I ’m not in 
a humor now to look into niceties or a letter more or less, for 
these lashes that are to be given me, or I ’m to give myself, 
have so upset me, that I don’t know what I’m saying or 
doing. But I ’d like to know of this lady, my lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso, where she learned this way she has of asking 
favors. She comes to ask me to score my flesh with lashes, 
and she calls me soul of a pitcher, and great untamed brute, 
and a string of foul names that the devU is welcome to. Is 
my flesh brass ? or is it anything to me whether she is en- 
chanted or not ? Does she bring with her a basket of fair 
* That which holds back the string of the crossbow. 


252 


DON QUIXOTE. 


linen, shirts, kerchiefs, socks — not that I wear any — to coax 
me ? No, nothing but one piece of abuse after another, 
though she knows the proverb they have here that ‘an ass 
loaded with gold goes lightly up a mountain,’ and that ‘ gifts 
break rocks,’ and ‘ praying to God and plying the hammer,’ 
and that ‘ one “ take ” is better than two “ I ’ll give thee’s.” ’ ^ 
Then there ’s my master, who ought to stroke me down and 
pet me to make me turn wool and carded cotton ; he says if 
he gets hold of me he ’ll tie me naked to a tree and double 
the tale of lashes on me. These tender-hearted gentry should 
consider that it ’s not merely a squire, but a governor they are 
asking to whip himself ; just as if it was ‘ drink with cher- 
ries.’ ^ Let them learn, plague take them, the right way to 
ask, and beg, and behave themselves ; for all times are not 
alike,® nor are people always in good humor. I’m just now 
ready to burst with grief at seeing my green coat, torn, and 
they come to ask me to whip myself of my own free will, I 
having as little fancy for it as for turning cacique.” 

“Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho,” said the duke, 
“ that unless you become softer than a ripe fig, you shall not 
get hold of the government. It would be a nice thing for me 
to send my islanders a cruel governor with flinty bowels, who 
won’t yield to the tears of afflicted damsels or to the prayers 
of wise, magisterial, ancient enchanters and sages. In short, 
Sancho, either you must be whipped by yourself, or they must 
whip you, or you shan’t be governor.” 

“ Senor,” said Sancho, “ won’t two days’ grace be given me 
to consider what is best for me ? ” 

“ No, certainly not,” said Merlin ; “ here, this minute, and 
on the spot, the matter must be settled ; either Dulcinea will 
return to the cave of Montesinos and to her former condition 
of peasant wench, or else in her present form shall be carried 
to the Elysian fields, where she will remain waiting until the 
number of stripes is completed.” 

“ Now then, Sancho ! ” said the duchess, “ show courage, 
and gratitude for your master Don Quixote’s bread that you 
have eaten ; we are all bound to oblige and please him for his 
benevolent disposition and lofty chivalry. Consent to this 
whipping, my son ; ^o the devil with the devil, and leave fear 

* Provs. 17, 68, 85, and 227. 

® Prov. 108 ; i.e. a perfectly natural accompaniment. 

Prov. 225. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


253 


to milksops, for < a stout heart breaks bad luck,’ ^ as you very 
well know.” 

To this Sancho replied with an irrelevant remark, which, 
addressing Merlin, he made to him, Will your worship tell 
me, Senor Merlin, — when that courier devil came up he gave 
my master a message from Senor Montesinos, charging him to 
wait for him here, as he was coming to arrange how the lady 
Dona Dulcinea del Toboso was to be disenchanted ; but up to 
the present we have not seen Montesinos, nor anything like 
him.” 

To which Merlin made answer, The devil, friend Sancho, 
is a blockhead and a great scoundrel ; I sent him to look for 
your master, but not with a message from Montesinos but from 
myself ; for Montesinos is in his cave expecting, or, more 
properly speaking, waiting for his disenchantment ; for there ’s 
the tail to be skinned yet for him ; ^ if he owes you anything, 
or you have any business to transact with him, I ’ll bring him 
to you and put him where you choose ; but for the present 
make up your mind to consent to this penance, and believe me 
it will be very good for you, for soul as well as for body — for 
your soul because of the charity with which you perform it, 
for your body because I know that you are of a sanguine habit 
and it will do you no harm to draw a little blood.” 

There are a great many doctors in the world ; even the 
enchanters are doctors,” said Sancho ; however, as everybody 
tells me the same thing — though I can’t see it myself — I say 
I am willing to give myself the three thousand three hundred 
lashes, provided I am to lay them on whenever I like, without 
any fixing of days or times ; and I ’ll try and get out of debt as 
quickly as I can, that the world may enjoy the beauty of the 
lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; as it seems, contrary to what I 
thought, that she is beautiful after all. It must be a condi- 
tion, too, that I am not to be bound to draw blood with the 
scourge, and that if any of the lashes happen to be fly-flappers 
they are to count. Item, that, in case I should make any mis- 
take in the reckoning, Senor Merlin, as he knows everything, 
is to keep count, and let me know how many are still wanting 
or over the number.” 

There will be no need to let you know of any over,” said 
Merlin, because, when you reach the full number, the lady 
Dulcinea will at once, and that very instant, be disenchanted, 
‘ Frov. 58. * Prov. 52. 


254 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and will come in her gratitude to seek out the worthy Sancho, 
and thank him, and even reward him for the good work. So you 
have no cause to be uneasy about stripes too many or too few ; 
heaven forbid I should cheat any one of even a hair of his head.’^ 

“ Well then, in God’s hands be it,” said Sancho ; in the 
hard case I ’m in I give in ; I say I accept the penance on the 
conditions laid down.” 

The instant Sancho uttered these last words the music of 
the clarions struck up once more, and again a host of muskets 
were discharged, and Don Quixote hung on Sancho’s neck 
kissing him again and again on the forehead and cheeks. The 
duchess and the duke and all who stood by expressed the 
greatest satisfaction, the car began to move on, and as it 
passed the fair Dulcinea bowed, to the duke and duchess and 
made a low courtesy to Sancho. 

And now bright smiling dawn came on apace ; the flowers 
of the field, revived, raised up their heads, and the crystal 
waters of the brooks, murmuring over the gray and white 
pebbles, hastened to pay their tribute to the expectant rivers ; 
the glad earth, the unclouded sky, the fresh breeze, the clear 
light, each and all showed that the day that came treading 
on the skirts of morning would be calm and bright. The 
duke and duchess, pleased with their hunt and at having 
carried out their plans so cleverly and successfully, returned 
to their castle resolved to follow up their joke ; for to them 
there was no reality that could afford them more amusement. 


CHAPTEK XXXVI. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF 
ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE 
.COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH 
SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA. 

The duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive 
turn, and he it was that played the part of Merlin, made all 
the arrangements for the late adventure, composed the verses, 
and got a page to represent Dulcinea; and now, with the 
assistance of his master and mistress, he got up another of the 
drollest and strangest contrivance that can be imagined. 


CHAPTER XXX VI. 


255 


The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he had made a 
beginning with his penance task which he had to perform for 
the disenchantment of Dulcinea. He said he had, and had 
given himself five lashes overnight. 

The duchess asked him what he had given them with. 

He said with his hand. 

That,’’ said the duchess, is more like giving one’s self 
slaps than lashes ; I am sure the sage Merlin will not be sat- 
isfied with such tenderness ; worthy Sancho must make a 
scourge with claws, or a cat-o’-nine tails,’ that will make itself 
felt ; for it ’s with blood that letters enter,^ and the release of 
so great a lady as Dulcinea will not be granted so cheaply, or 
at such a paltry price ; and remember, Sancho, that works of 
charity done in a lukewarm and half-hearted way are without 
merit and of no avail.” * 

To which Sancho replied, If your ladyship will give me a 
proper scourge or cord, I ’ll lay on with it, provided it does not 
hurt too much ; for you must know, boor as I am, my flesh is 
more cotton than hemp, and it won’t do for me to destroy 
myself for the good of anybody else.” 

So be it by all means,” said the duchess ; to-morrow I ’ll 
give you a scourge that will be just the thing for you, and 
will accommodate itself to the tenderness of your flesh, as if 
it was its own sister.” , 

Then said Sancho, “ Your highness must know, dear lady 
of my soul, that I have a letter written to my wife, Teresa 
Panza, giving her an account of all that has happened me 
since I left her ; I have it here in my bosom, and there ’s 
nothing wanting but to put the address to it ; I ’d be glad if 
your discretion would read it, for I think it runs in the 
governor style ; I mean the way governors ought to write.” 

And who dictated it ? ” asked the duchess. 

Who should have dictated but myself, sinner as I am ? ” 
said Sancho. 

And did you write it yourself ? ” said the duchess. 

That I didn’t,” said Sancho ; for I can neither read nor 
write, though I can sign my name.” 

* Properly by the thick knotted ends of the cords forming the lashes of 
the scourge used by penitents. 

3 Prov. 127. 

3 The last clause of this paragraph was expunged by order of the In- 
quisition in 1619, and has not been since restored in any addition I am 
acquainted with. 


256 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Let us see it,” said the duchess, for never fear but you 
display in it the quality and quantity of your wit.” 

Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosom, and the 
duchess taking it, found it ran in this fashion : 


SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA. 

If I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman ; Mf I 
have got a good government it is at the cost of a good whipping. 
Thou wilt not understand this just now, my Teresa ; by-and-by thou 
wilt know what it means. I may tell thee, Teresa, I mean thee to 
go in a coach, for that is a matter of importance, because every 
other way of going is going on all-fours. Thou art a governor’s 
wife ; take care that nobody speaks evil of thee behind thy back. I 
send thee here a green hunting suit that my lady the duchess gave 
me ; alter it so as to make a petticoat and bodice for our daughter. 
Don Quixote, my master, if 1 am to believe what I hear in these 
parts, is a madman of some sense, and a droll blockhead, and I am 
no way behind him. We have been in the cave of Montesinos, and 
the sage Merlin has laid hold of me for the disenchantment of Dul- 
cinea del Toboso, her that is called Aldonza Lorenzo over there. 
With three thousand three hundred lashes, less five, that I ’m to give 
myself, she will be left as entirely disenchanted as the mother that 
bore her. Say nothing of this to any one ; for, make thy affairs 
public, and some will say they are white and others will say they are 
black. I shall leave this in a few days for my government, to 
which I am going with a mighty great desire to make money, for 
they tell me all new governors set out with the same desire ; I will 
feel the pulse of it and will let thee know if thou art to come and 
live with me or not. Dapple is well and sends many remembrances 
to thee ; I am not going to leave him behind though they took me 
away to be Grand Turk. My lady the duchess kisses thy hands a 
thousand times ; do thou make a return with two thousand, for, as 
my master says, nothing costs less or is cheaper than civility. God 
has not been pleased to provide another valise for me with another 
hundred crowns, like the one the other day; but never mind, my 
Teresa, the bell-ringer is in safe quarters, and all will come out in 
the scouring of the government only it troubles me greatly what 
they tell me, — that once I have tried it I will eat my hands off after 
it ; * and if that is so it will not come very cheap to me ; though to 
be sure the maimed have a benefice of their own in the alms they 
beg for ; so that one way or another thou wilt be rich and in luck. 

* Prov. 29. A proverb that evidently had its origin in the words of some 
philosophical culprit after having been whipped through the streets 
mounted on an ass, according to custom. Sancho quotes it again in 
chapter Ixxii. 

* Prov. 57. ^ A. reference to Provs. 200 and 53. 

* A popular phrase expressive of extreme eagerness. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


257 


God give it to thee as he can, and keep me to serve thee. From this 
castle, the 20th of July, 1614. ‘ 

Thy husband, the governor, 

Sancho Panza. 

When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to 
Sancho, On two points the worthy governor goes rather 
astray ; one is in saying or hinting that this government has 
been bestowed upon him for the lashes that he is to give him- 
self, when he knows (and he can not deny it) that when my 
lord the duke promised it to him nobody ever dreamt of such 
a thing as lashes ; the other is that he shows himself here to 
be very covetous ; and I would not have him a money-seeker,* 
for ‘ covetousness bursts the bag,’ ^ and the covetous governor 
does ungoverned justice.” 

I don’t mean it that way, senora,” said Sancho ; ‘‘ and if 
you think the letter does n’t run as it ought to do, it ’s only to 
tear it up and make another ; and maybe it will be a worse 
one if it is left to my gumption.” 

‘‘No, no,” said the duchess, “this one will do, and I wish 
the duke to see it.” 

With this they betook themselves to a garden where they 
were to dine, and the duchess showed Sancho’s letter to the 
duke, who was highly delighted with it. They dined, and 
after the cloth had been removed and they had amused them- 
selves for a while with Sancho’s rich conversation, the melan- 
choly sound of a fife and harsh discordant drum made itself 
heard. All seemed somewhat put out by this dull, confused, 
martial harmony, especially Don Quixote, who could not keep 
his seat from pure disquietude ; as to Sancho, it is needless to 
say that fear drove him to his usual refuge, the side or the 
skirts of the duchess ; and indeed and in truth the sound they 
heard was a most doleful and melancholy one. While they 
were still in uncertainty they saw advancing towards them 
through the garden two men clad in mourning robes so long 
and flowing that they trailed upon the ground. As they 
marched they beat two great drums which were likewise 
draped in black, and beside them came the fife player, black 
and sombre like the others. Following these there came a 

* This date is obviously the date at which Cervantes was writing. 

* Oregano^ properly wild marjoram. See Prov. 160. 

® Prov. 50. 


VoL. II. — 17 


258 


DON QUIXOTE. 


personage ©f gigantic stature enveloped rather than clad in a 
gown of the deepest black, the skirt of which was of prodigious 
dimensions. Over the gown, girdling or crossing his figure, 
he had a broad baldric which was also black, and from which 
hung a huge cimeter with a black scabbard and furniture. He 
had his face covered with a transparent black veil, through 
which might be descried a very long beard as white as snow. 

He came on keeping step to the sound of the drums with 
great gravity and dignity ; and, in short, his stature, his gait, 
the sombreness of his appearance and his following might well 
have struck with astonishment, as they did, all who beheld 
him without knowing who he. was. With this measured pace 
and in this guise he advanced to kneel before the duke, who, 
with the others, awaited him standing. The duke, however, 
would not on any account allow him to speak until he had 
risen. The terrific object obeyed, and standing up, removed 
the veil from his face and disclosed the most enormous, the 
longest, the whitest and the thickest beard that human eyes 
had ever beheld until that moment, and then fetching up a 
grave, sonorous voice from the depths of his broad, capacious 
chest, and fixing his eyes on the duke, he said, ‘‘ Most high 
and mighty senor, my name is Trifaldin of the White Beard ; 
I am squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the 
Distressed Duenna, on whose behalf I bear a message to your 
highness, which is that your magnificence will be pleased to 
grant her leave and permission to come and tell you her 
trouble, which is one of the strangest and most wonderful that 
the mind most familiar with trouble in the world could have 
imagined ; but first she desires to know if the valiant and 
never vanquished knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, is in 
this your castle, for she has come in quest of him on foot and 
without breaking her fast from the kingdom of Kandy to your 
realms here ; a thing which may and ought to be regarded as 
a miracle or set down to enchantment ; she is even now at the 
gate of this fortress or plaisance, and only waits for your per- 
mission to enter. I have spoken.’’ And with that he coughed 
and stroked down his beard with both his hands, and stood 
very tranquilly waiting for the response of the duke, which 
was to this effect : Many days ago, worthy squire Trifaldin 
of the White Beard, we heard of the misfortune of my lady 
the Countess of Trifaldi, whom the enchanters have caused to 
be called the Distressed Duenna. Bid her enter, 0 stupendous 


CHAPTER XXXV I , 


259 


squire, and tell her that the valiant knight Don Quixote of La 
Mancha is here, and from his generous disposition she may 
safely promise herself every protection and assistance ; and 
you may tell her, too, that if my aid be necessary it will not 
be withheld, for I am bound to give it to her by my quality of 
knight, which involves the protection of women of all sorts, 
especially widowed, wronged, and distressed dames, such as 
her ladyship seems to be/’ 

On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the ground, and 
making a sign to the fifer and drummers to strike up, he 
turned and marched out of the garden to the same notes and 
at the same pace as when he entered, leaving them all 
amazed at his bearing, and solemnity. Turning to Don Qui- 
xote, the duke said, After all, renowned knight, the mists of 
malice and ignorance are unable to hide or obscure the light of 
valor and virtue. I say so, because your excellence has been 
barely six days in this castle, and already the unhappy and 
the afflicted come in quest of you from lands far distant and 
remote, and not in coaches or on dromedaries, but on foot 
and fasting, confident that in that mighty arm they will find 
a cure for their sorrows and troubles ; thanks to your great 
achievements, which are circulated all over the known earth.” 

I wish, senor duke,” replied Don Quixote, that blessed 
ecclesiastic, who at table the other day showed such ill-will 
and bitter spite against knights-errant, were here now to see 
with his own eyes whether knights of the sort are needed in 
the world ; he would at any rate learn by experience that 
those suffering any extraordinary affliction or sorrow, in ex- 
treme cases and unusual misfortunes do not go to look for a 
remedy to the houses of jurists or village sacristans, or to the 
knight who has never attempted to pass the bounds of his own 
town, or to the indolent courtier who only seeks for news to 
repeat and talk of, instead of striving to do deeds and 
exploits for others to relate and record. Relief in distress, 
help in need, protection for damsels, consolation for widows, 
are to be found in no sort of persons better than in knights- 
errant ; and I give unceasing thanks to Heaven that I am one, 
and regard any misfortune or suffering that may befall me in 
the pursuit of so honorable a calling as endured to good pur- 
pose. Let this duenna come and ask what she will, for I will 
effect her relief by the might of my arm and the dauntless 
resolution of my bold heart.” 


260 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE 
DISTRESSED DUENNA. 

The duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how 
readily Don Quixote fell in with their scheme ; but at this 
moment Sancho observed, I hope this senora duenna won’t 
be putting any difficulties in the way of the promise of my 
government ; for I have heard a Toledo apothecary, who talked 
like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were mixed up noth- 
ing good could happen. God bless me, how he hated them, 
that same apothecary ! And so what I ’m thinking is, if all 
duennas, of whatever sort or condition they may be, are plagues 
and busybodies, what must they be that are distressed, like 
this Countess Three-skirts or Three-tails ! ‘ — for in my country 
skirts or tails, tails or skirts, it ’s all one.” 

Hush, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; since this lady 
duenna comes in quest of me from such a distant land she 
can not be one of those the apothecary meant ; moreover this 
is a countess, and when countesses serve as duennas it is in the 
service of queens and empresses, for in their own houses they 
are mistresses paramount and have other duennas to wait on 
them.” 

To this Dona Rodriguez, who was present, made answer. 
My lady the duchess has duennas in her service that might 
be countesses if it was the will of fortune ; ^ but laws go as 
kings like ; ’ ^ let nobody speak ill of duennas, above all of 
ancient maiden ones ; for though I am not one myself, I know 
and am aware of the advantage a maiden duenna has over 
one that is a widow; but ^he who clipped us has kept the 
scissors.’ ” * 

For all that,” said Sancho, there ’s so much to be clipped 
about duennas, so my barber said, that ^ it will be better not to 
stir the rice even though it sticks.’ ” ^ 

These squires,” returned Dona Rodriguez, are alway our 
enemies ; and as they are the haunting spirits of the ante- 
chambers and watch us at every step, whenever they are not 

* Trifaldi = Tres faldas^ or three skirts. 

* Prov. 204. 3 Prov. 231. 


* Prov. 137. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


261 


saying their prayers (and that^s often enough) they spend 
their time in tattling about us, digging up our bones and bury- 
ing our good name. But I can tell these walking blocks that 
we will live in spite of them, and in great houses too, though 
we die of hunger and cover our flesh, be it delicate or not, 
with widow’s weeds, as one covers or hides a dunghill on a 
procession day. By my faith, if it w^ere permitted me and 
time allowed, I could prove, not only to those here present, 
but to all the world, that there is no virtue that is not to be 
found in a duenna.” 

I have no doubt,” said the duchess, that my good Dona 
Bodriguez is right, and very much so ; but she had better 
bide her time for fighting her own battle and that of the rest 
of the duennas, so as to crush the calumny of that vile apothe- 
cary, and root out the prejudice in the great Sancho Panza’s 
mind.” 

To which Sancho replied, ‘‘Ever since I have sniffed the 
governorship I have got rid of the humors of a squire, and I 
don’t care a wild fig for all the duennas in the world.” 

They would have carried on this duenna dispute further had 
they not heard the notes of the fife and drums once more, from 
which they concluded that the Distressed Duenna was making 
her entrance. The duchess asked the duke if it would be 
proper to go out to receive her, as she was a countess and a 
person of rank. 

“ In respect of her being a countess,” said Sancho, before 
the duke could reply, “ I am for your highnesses going out to 
receive her; but in respect of her being a duenna., it is my 
opinion you should not stir a step.” 

“ Who bade thee meddle in this, Sancho ? ” said Don 
Quixote. 

“ Who, senor ? ” said Sancho ; “ I meddle for I have a right 
to meddle, as a squire who has learned the rules of courtesy 
in the school of your worship, the most courteous and best- 
bred knight in the whole world of courtliness ; and in these 
things, as I have heard your worship say, as much is lost by a 
card too many as by a card too few, and to one who has his 
ears open, few words.” ^ 

“ Sancho is right,” said the duke ; we ’ll see what the 
countess is like, and by that measure the courtesy that is due 
to her.” 


^ Pro vs. 39 and 95. 


262 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And now the drums and fife made their entrance as before ; 
and here the author brought this short chapter to an end and 
began the next, following up the same adventure, which is one 
of the most notable in the history. 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA’s TALE OF HER 
MISFORTUNES. 

Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the 
garden as many as twelve duennas, in two lines, all dressed in 
ample mourning robes apparently of milled serge, with hoods 
of fine white gauze so long that they allowed only the border 
of the robe to be seen. Behind them came the Countess Tri- 
faldi, the squire Trifaldin of the White Beard leading her by 
the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black baize, such that, 
had it a nap, every tuft would have shown as big as a Martos 
chick-pea ; ^ the tail, or skirt, or whatever it might be called, 
ended in three points which were borne up by the hands of 
three pages, likewise dressed in mourning, forming an elegant 
geometrical figure with the three acute angles made by the 
three points, from which, all who saw the peaked skirt con- 
cluded that it must be because of it the countess was called 
Trifaldi, as though it were Countess of the Three Skirts ; and 
Benengeli says it was so, and that by her right name she was 
called the Countess Lobuna, because wolves bred in great 
numbers in her country ; and if, instead of wolves, they had 
been foxes, she would have been called the Countess Zorruna,^ 
as it was the custom in those parts for lords to take distinctive 
titles from the thing or things most abundant in their domin- 
ions ; this countess, however, in honor of the new fashion of 
her skirt, dropped Lobuna and took up Trifaldi. 

The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession 
pace, their faces being covered with black veils, not transpar- 
ent ones like Trifaldin’s, but so close that they allowed nothing 
to be seen through them. As soon as the band of duennas 

* Martos, a town of Andalusia to the south-west of Jaen. apparently 
famous for its garbanzo crops. 

^ From zorruy a fox. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


263 


was fully in sight, the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote 
stood up, as well as all who were watching the slow-moving 
procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a lane, 
along which the Distressed One advanced, Trifaldin still hold- 
ing her hand. On seeing this the duke, the duchess, and Don 
Quixote went some twelve paces forward to meet her. She 
then, kneeling on the ground, said in a voice hoarse and rough, 
rather than fine and delicate, “ May it please your highnesses 
not to offer such courtesies to this your servant, I should say 
to this your handmaid, for I am in such distress that I shall 
never be able to make a proper return, because my strange and 
unparalleled misfortune has carried off my wits, and I know 
not whither ; but it must be a long way off, for the more I look 
for them the less I find them.” 

He would be wanting in wits, sehora countess,” said the 
duke, who did not perceive your worth by your person^ for 
at a glance it may be seen it deserves all the cream of courtesy 
and flower of polite usage ; ” and raising her up by the hand 
he led her to a seat beside the duchess, who likewise received 
her with great urbanity. Don Quixote remained silent, while 
Sancho was dying to see the features of Trifaldi and one or 
two of her many duennas ; but there was no possibility of it 
until they themselves displayed them of their own accord and 
free will. 

All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which 
the Distressed Duenna did in these words : I am confident, 
most mighty lord, most fair lady, and most discreet company, 
that my most miserable misery will be accorded a reception no 
less dispassionate than generous and condolent in your most 
valiant bosoms, for it is one that is enough to melt marble, 
soften diamonds, and mollify the steel of the most hardened 
hearts in the world ; but ere it is proclaimed to your hearing, 
not to say your ears, I would fain be enlightened whether 
there be present in this society, circle, or company, that knight 
immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his 
squirissimus Panza.” 

“ The Panza is here,” said Sancho, before any one could 
reply.j and Don Quixotissimus too ; and so, most distressedest 
Dueni^dma, you may say what you willissimus, for we are all 
readissimus to do you any servissimus.” 

On this Don Quixote rose, and addressing the Distressed 
Duenna, said, If your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in 


264 


DON QUIXOTE. 


any hope of relief from the valor or might of any knight- 
errant, here are mine, which, feeble and limited though they 
be, shall be entirely devoted to your service. I am Don Qui- 
xote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to give aid to the needy 
of all sorts ; and that being so, it is not necessary for you, 
sehora, to make any appeal to benevolence, or deal in preambles, 
only to tell your woes plainly and straightforwardly : for you 
have hearers that will know how, if not to remedy them, to 
sympathize with them.” 

On hearing this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she 
would throw herself at Don Quixote’s feet, and actually did 
fall before them and said, as she strove to embrace them, 

Before these feet and legs I cast myself, 0 unconquered 
knight, as before, what they are, the foundations and pillars of 
knight-errantry ; these feet I desire to kiss, for upon their 
steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my misfortune, 
0 valorous errant, whose veritable achievements leave behind 
and eclipse the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, 
and Belianises ! ” Then turning from Don Quixote to Sancho 
Panza, and grasping his hands, she said, “ 0 thou, most loyal 
squire that ever served knight-errant in this present age or 
ages past, whose goodness is more extensive than the beard of 
Trifaldin my companion here present, well mayest thou boast 
thyself that, in serving the great Don Quixote, thou art serv- 
ing, summed up in one, the whole host of knights that have 
ever borne arms in the world. I conjure thee, by what thou 
owest to thy most loyal goodness, that thou wilt become my 
kind intercessor with thy master, that he speedily give aid to 
this most humble and most unfortunate countess.” 

To this Sancho made answer, As to my goodness, sehora, 
being as long and as great as your squire’s beard, it matters 
very little to me ; may I have my soul well bearded and mUs- 
tached when it comes to quit this life,' that ’s the point ; about 
beards here below I care little or nothing ; but without all 
these blandishments and prayers, I will beg my master (for I 
know he loves me, and, besides, he has need of me just now 
for a certain business) to help and aid your worship as far as 
he can; unpack your woes and lay them before us, and leave 
us to deal with them, for we ’ll be all of one mind.” 

* Perhaps an allusion to the story in Caspar Lucas Hidalgo’s Dialogos 
of the pioua young man who said if he had mustaches to his soul he did 
not care for any others. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


265 


The duke and duchess, as it was they who had made the 
experiment of this adventure, were ready to burst with laughter 
at all this, and between themselves they commended the clever 
acting of the Trif aldi, who, returning to her seat, said, “ Queen 
Dona Maguncia reigned over the famous kingdom of Kandy, 
which lies between the great Trapobana and the Southern Sea, 
two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She was the widow of 
King Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their marriage 
they had issue the Princess Anton omasia, heiress of the king- 
dom; which Princess Antonomasia was reared and brought 
up under my care and direction, I being the oldest and highest 
in rank of her mother’s duennas. Time passed, and the young 
Antonomasia reached the age of fourteen, and such a perfection 
of beauty, that nature could not raise it higher. Then, it must 
not be supposed her intelligence was childish; she was as 
intelligent as she was fair, and she was fairer than all the 
world; and is so still, unless the envious fates and hard- 
hearted sisters three have cut for her the thread of life. But 
that they have not, for Heaven will not suffer so great a 
wrong to Earth, as it would be to pluck unripe the grapes of 
the fairest vineyard on its surface. Of this beauty, to which 
my poor feeble tongue has failed to do justice, countless 
princes, not only of that country, but of others, were enam- 
oured, and among them a private gentleman, who was at the 
court, dared to raise his thoughts to the heaven of so great 
beauty, trusting to his youth, his gallant bearing, his numerous 
accomplishments and graces, and his quickness and readiness 
of wit ; for I may tell your highness, if I am not wearying 
you, that he played the guitar so as to make it speak, and he 
was, besides, a poet and a great dancer, and he could make 
bird-cages so well, that by making them alone he might have 
gained a livelihood, had he found himself reduced to utter 
poverty ; and gifts and graces of this kind are enough to bring 
down a mountain, not to say a tender young girl. But all his 
gallantry, wit, and gayety, all his graces and accomplishments, 
would have been of little or no avail towards gaining the 
fortress of my pupil, had not the impudent thief taken the 
precaution of gaining me over first. First, the villain and 
heartless vagabond sought to win my good-will and purchase 
my compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous warder, to 
deliver up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In 
a word, he gained an influence ove;r my mind, and overcame 


266 


DON QUIXOTE. 


my resolutions with I know not what trinkets and jewels he 
gave me ; but it was some verses I heard him singing one 
night from a grating that opened on the street where he lived, 
that, more than anything else, made me give way. and led to 
my fall ; and if I remember rightly they ran thus : 

From that sweet enemy of mine 

My bleeding heart hath had its wound : 

And to increase the pain I ’m bound 
To suffer and to make no sign.* 

The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as sirup ; 
and afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the mis- 
fortune into which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as 
Plato advised, ought to be banished from all well-ordered 
States ; at least the amatory ones, for they write verses, not 
like those of ‘ .The Marquis of Mantua,’ ^ that delight and 
draw tears from the women and children, but sharp-pointed 
conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and like the 
lightning strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another 
time he sang; 


Come Death, so subtly veiled that I 
Thy coming know not, how or when, 

Lest it should give me life again 
To find how sweet it is to die.^ 

— and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as 
enchant when sung and fascinate when written. And then, 
when they condescend to compose a sort of verse that was at 
that time in vogue in Kandy, which they call seguidillas ! ^ 
Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks forth, and the 
body grows restless and all the senses turn quicksilver. And 

• A translation from the Italian of' Serafino Aquilano (1500). The 
original is interesting as an Italian imitation of Spanish redondillas. 

^ i.e., the old ballad, so often quoted. 

^ The first of three stanzas in redondillas by the Comendador Escriva, 
an old poet, some of whose verses appear in the Cancionero of Fernando 
de Castillo (1511). The lines seem to have been extremely popular. Lope 
wrote a gloss upon them, and Calderon introduced them into two of his 
plays. From the use to which Cervantes puts them in this passage he 
does not seem to have admired them as much as his contemporaries. To 
his temperament, very likely, this sighing after death savored of affecta- 
tion. Probably to his robuster philosophy life was to be lived so long as 
it was left to us, and death met manfully when it came. 

^ V. Note 1, p. 170, chap, xxiv., vol. ii. 


CHAPTER XXXVITL 


267 


so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve to be 
banished to the isles of the lizards.^ Though it is net they 
that are in fault, but the simpletons that extol them, and the 
fools that believe in them ; and had I. been the faithful duenna 
I should have been, his stale conceits would have never moved 
me, nor should I have been taken in by such phrases as ‘ in 
death I live,’ ^ in ice I burn,’ ^ in flames I shiver,’ ^ hopeless I 
hope,’ ^ I go and stay,’ and paradoxes of that sort which their 
writings are full of. And then when they promise the Phoenix 
of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses of the Sun, the 
pearls of the South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam of 
Panchaia ! ® Then it is they give a loose to their pens, for it 
costs them little to make promises they have no intention or 
power of fulfilling. But where am I wandering to? Woe is 
me, unfortunate being ! What madness or folly leads me to 
speak of the faults of others, when there is so much to be said 
about my own ? Again, woe is me, hapless tliat I am ! it was 
not verses that conquered me, but my own simplicity ; it was 
not music made me yield, but my own imprudence ; my own 
great ignorance and little caution opened the way and cleared 
the path for Don Clavijo’s advances, for that was the name 
of the gentleman I have referred to ; and so, with my help as 
go-between, he found his way many a time into the chamber 
of the deceived Antonomasia (deceived not by him but by me) 
under the title of a lawful husband ; for, sinner though I was, 
I would not have allowed him to approach the edge of her 
shoe-sole without being her husband. No, no, not that ; 
marriage must come first in any business of this sort that I 
take in hand. But there was one hitch in this case, which 
was that of inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private 
gentleman, and the Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to 
the kingdom. The entanglement remained for some time a 
secret, kept hidden by my cunning precautions, until I per- 
ceived that a certain expansion of waist in Antonomasia must 
before long disclose it, the dread of which made us all three 
take counsel together, and it was agreed that before the mis- 
chief came to light, Don Clavijo should demand Antonomasia 
as his wife before the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement tc 

* i.e. desert islands — a phrase from the Flores of Torquemada. 

* Tibar, a river of Arabia. Panchaia, a district of Arabia Felix, 

Totaqiie thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis.” 

VlRG, Georg, ii. 139. 


268 


DON QUIXOTE. 


marry him made by the princess, and draughted by my wit in 
such binding terms that the might of Samson could not have 
broken it. The necessary steps were taken ; the Vicar saw the 
agreement, and took the lady’s confession ; she confessed every 
thing iii full, and he ordered her into the custody of a very 
worthy alguacil of the Court.” 

‘^Are there alguacils of the Court in Kandy, too,” said 
Sancho at this, “ and poets, and seguidillas ? I swear I think 
the world is the same all over ! But make haste, Senora Trif- 
aldi ; for it is late, and I am dying to know the end of this 
long story.” 

I will,” replied the countess. 


. CHAPTER XXXTX. 

IN WHICH THE TRTFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS ANB 
MEMORABLE STORY. 

By every word that Sancho uttered, the duchess was as much 
delighted as Don Quixote was driven to desperation. He bade 
hiin hold his tongue, and the Distressed One went on to say : 

At length, after much questioning and answering, as the prin- 
cess held to her story, without changing or varying her pre- 
vious declaration, the Vicar gave his decision in favor of Don 
Clavijo, and she was delivered over to him as his lawful wife ; 
which the queen Dona Maguncia, the princess Antonomasia’s 
mother, so took to heart, that within the space of three days 
we buried her.’’ 

She died, no doubt,” said Sancho. 

Of course,” said Trifaldin ; they don’t bury living people 
in Kandy, only the dead.” 

Sehor Squire,” said Sancho, a man in a swoon has been 
known to be buried before now, in the belief that he was dead ; 
and it struck me that queen Maguncia ought to have swooned 
rather than died ; because with life a great many things come 
right, and the princess’s folly was not so great that she need 
feel it so keenly. If the lady had married some page of hers, 
or some other servant of the house, as many another has done, 
so I have heard say, then the mischief would have been past 
curing. But to marry such an elegant accomplished gentle- 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


269 


man as has been just now described to us — indeed, indeed, 
though it was a folly, it was not such a great one as you think ; 
for according to the rules of my master here — and he won’t 
allow me to lie — as of men of letters bishops are made, so 
of gentlemen knights, specially if they be errant, kings and 
emperors may be made.” 

“Thou art right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for with a 
knight-errant, if he has but two fingers’ breadth of good for- 
tune, it is on the cards to become the mightiest lord on earth. 
But let the distressed senora proceed; for I suspect she 
has got yet to tell us the bitter part of this so far sweet 
story.” 

“ The bitter is indeed to come,” said the countess ; “ and 
such bitter that colocynth is sweet and oleander toothsome in 
comparison. The queen, then, being dead, and not in a swoon, 
we buried her; and hardly had we covered her with earth, 
hardly had we said our last farewells, when, quis talia fando 
temqferet a lachrymis ? over the queen’s grave there appeared, 
mounted upon a wooden horse, the giant Malambruno, Magun- 
cia’s first cousin, who besides being cruel is an enchanter; 
and he, to revenge the death of his cousin, punish the audacity 
of Don Clavijo, and in wrath at the contumacy of Antono- 
masia, left them both enchanted by his art on the grave itself ; 
she being changed into an ape of brass, and he into a horrible 
crocodile of some unknown metal ; while between the two 
there stands a pillar, also of metal, with certain characters in 
the Syriac language inscribed upon it, which, being translated 
into Kandian, and now into Castilian, contain the following 
sentence : ^ These two rash lovers shall not recover their for- 
mer shape until the valiant Manchegan comes to do battle 
with me in single combat ; for the Fates reserve this unex- 
ampled adventure for his mighty valor alone.’ This done, he 
drew from its sheath a huge broad cimeter, and seizing me by 
the hair he made as though he meant to cut my throat and 
shear my head clean off. I was terror-stricken, my voice 
stuck in my throat, and I was in the deepest distress ; never- 
theless I summoned up my strength as well as I could, and in 
a trembling and piteous voice I addressed such words to him 
as induced him to stay the infliction of a punishment so 
severe. He then caused all the duennas of the palace, those 
that are here present, to be brought before him ; and after 
having dwelt upon the enormity of our offence, and denounced 


270 


DON Ql/fXOTE. 


duennas, their characters, their evil ways and worse intrigues. 
laying to the charge of all what I alone was guilty of, he said 
he would not visit us with capital punishment, but with others 
of a slow nature which would be in effect civil death forever ; 
and the very instant he ceased speaking we all felt the pores 
of our faces opening, and pricking us, as if with the points of 
needles. We at once put our hands up to our faces and found 
ourselves in the state you now see.’^ 

Here the Distressed One and the other duennas raised the 
veils with which they were covered, and disclosed countenances 
all bristling with beards, some red, some black, some white, 
and some grizzled, at which spectacle the duke and duchess 
made a show of being filled with wonder. Don Quixote and 
Sancho were overwhelmed with amazement, and the bystanders 
lost in astonishment, while the Trifaldi went on to say : Thus 
did that malevolent villain Malambruno punish us, covering 
the tenderness and softness of our faces with these rough 
bristles ! Would to Heaven that he had swept off our heads 
with his enormous cimeter instead of obscuring the light of 
our countenances with these wool-combings that cover us ! 
For if we look into the matter, sirs (and what I am now going 
to say I would say with eyes flowing like fountains, only that 
the thought of our misfortune and the oceans they have 
already wept, keep them as dry as barley spears, and so I say 
it without tears), where, I ask, can a duenna with a beard go 
to ? What father or mother will feel pity for her ? Who 
will help her ? For, if even when she has a smooth skin, and 
a face tortured by a thousand kinds of washes and cosmetics, 
she can hardly get anybody to love her, what will she do when 
she shows a countenance turned into a thicket ? Oh duennas, 
companions mine ! it was an unlucky moment when we were 
born, and an ill-starred hour when our fathers begot us ! ” 
And as she said this she showed signs of being about to 
faint. 


CHAPTER XL, 


271 


CHAPTER XL. 

OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE 
AND TO THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY. 

Verily and truly all those who find pleasure in histories 
like this ought to show their gratitude to Cid Hamet, its 
original author, for the scrupulous care he has taken to set 
before us all its minute particulars, not leaving anything, 
however trifling it may be, that he does not make clear and 
plain. He portrays the thoughts, he reveals the fancies, he 
answers implied questions, clears up doubts, sets objections 
at rest, and, in a word, makes plain the smallest points the 
most inquisitive can desire to know. 0 renowned author ! 0 
happy Don Quixote ! 0 famous Dulcinea ! 0 droll Sancho 
Panza ! All and each, may ye live countless ages for the 
delight and amusement of the dwellers on earth ! 

The history goes on to say that when Sancho saw the Dis- 
tressed One faint he exclaimed : I swear by the faith of an 
honest man and the shades of all my ancestors the Panzas, 
that never I did see or hear of, nor has my master related or 
conceived in his mind, such an adventure as this. A thousand 
devils — not to curse thee — take thee, Malambruno, for an en- 
chanter and a giant ! Couldst thou find no other sort of pun- 
ishment for these sinners but bearding them ? Would it not 
have been better — it would have been better for them — to have 
taken off half their noses from the middle downwards, even 
though they M have snuffled when they spoke, than to have put 
beards on them ? I ’ll bet they have not the means of paying 
anybody to shave them.” 

That is the truth, senor,” said one of the twelve ; we 
have not the money to get ourselves shaved, and so we have, 
some of us, taken to using sticking-plasters by way of an 
economical remedy, for by applying them to our faces and 
plucking them off with a jerk we are left as bare and smooth 
as the. bottom of a stone mortar. There are, to be sure, women 
in Kandy that go about from house to house to remove down, 
and trim eyebrows, and make cosmetics for the use of the 
women, but we, the duennas of my lady, would never let them 
in, for most of tliem have a flavor of agents that have ceased 


272 


DON QUIXOTE. 


to be principals ; and if we are not relieved by Senor Don 
Quixote we shall be carried to our graves with beards.’’ 

I will pluck out my own in the land of the Moors,” said 
Don Quixote, “ if I don’t cure yours.” 

At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and 
said, The chink of that promise, valiant knight, reached my 
ears in the midst of my swoon, and has been the means of re- 
viving me and bringing back my senses ; and so once more I 
implore you, illustrious errant, indomitable sir, to let your 
gracious promises be turned into deeds. 

‘‘ There shall be no delay on my part,” said Don Quixote. 

Bethink you, senora, of what I must do, for my heart is most 
eager to serve you.” 

“ The fact is,” replied the Distressed One, it is five thou- 
sand leagues, a couple more or less, from this to the kingdom of 
Kandy, if you go by land ; but if you go through the air and 
in a straight line, it is three thousand two hundred and twenty- 
seven. You must know, too, that Malambruno told me that, 
whenever fate provided the knight our deliverer, he himself 
would send him a steed far better and with less tricks than a 
post-horse ; for he will be that same wooden horse on which 
the valiant Pierres carried off the fair Magalona ; ^ which said 
horse is guided by a peg he has in his forehead that serves for 
a bridle, and flies through the air with such rapidity that you 
would fancy the very devils were carrying him. This horse, 
according to ancient tradition, was made by Merlin. He lent 
him to Pierres, who was a friend of his, and who made long 
journeys with him, and, as has been said, carried off the fair 
Magalona, bearing her through the air on its haunches and mak- 
ing all who beheld them from the earth gape with astonish- 
ment ; and he never lent him save to those whom he loved or 
those who paid him well ; and since the great Pierres we know 
of no one having mounted him until now. From him Malam- 
bruno stole him by his magic art, and he has him now in his 
possession, and makes use of him in his journeys which he con- 
stantly makes through different parts of the world ; he is here 
to-day, to-morrow in France, and the next day in Potosi ; and 
the best of it is the said horse neither eats nor sleeps nor. wears 
out shoes, and goes at an ambling pace through the air without 
wings, so that he whom he has mounted upon him can carry 
a cup fiill of water in his hand without spilling a drop, so 
^ For the story of Pierres and Magalona, see chap. xlir. vol. i. 


CHAPTER XL, 


273 


smoothly and easily does he go, and for this reason the fair 
Magalona enjoyed riding him greatly.’’ 

“ For going smoothly and easily,” said Sancho at this, give 
me my Dapple, though he can’t go through the air ; but on the 
ground I ’ll back him against all the amblers in the world.” 

They all laughed, and the Distressed One continued : And 
this same horse, if so be that Malambruno is disposed to put an 
end to our sufferings, will be here before us ere the night shall 
have advanced half an hour ; for he announced to me that the 
sign he would give me whereby I might know that I had found 
the knight I was in quest of, would be to send me the horse 
wherever he might be, speedily and promptly.” 

And how many is there room for on this horse ? ” asked 
Sancho. 

Two,” said the Distressed One, one in the saddle, and the 
other on the croup ; and generally these two are knight and 
squire, when there is no damsel that ’s being carried off.” 

I ’d like to know, senora Distressed One,” said Sancho, 
what is the name of this horse ? ” ^ 

His name,” said the Distressed One, is not the same as 
Bellerophon’s horse that was called Pegasus, or Alexander the 
Great’s, called Bucephalus, or Orlando Fuiioso’s, the name of 
which was Brigliador, nor yet Bayard, the horse of Reinaldos of 
Montalvan, nor Frontino like Ruggiero’s, nor Bootes or Peritoa, 
as they say the horses of the sun were called, nor is he called 
Orelia, like the horse on which the unfortunate Rodrigo, the 
last king of the Goths, rode to the battle where he lost his 
life and his kingdom.” 

I ’ll bet,” said Sancho, that as they have given him none 
of these famous names of well-known horses, no more have 
they given him the name of my master’s Rocinante, which for 
being apt surpasses all that have been mentioned.” 

That is true,” said the bearded countess, still it fits him 
very well, for he is called Clavileno the Swift, which name is 
in accordance with its being made of wood, with the peg he 
has in his forehead, ^ and with the swift pace at which he 
travels ; and so, as far as name goes, he may compare with 
the famous Rocinante.” 

I have nothing to say against his name,” said Sancho ; but 
with what sort of a bridle or halter is he managed ? ” 

I have said already,” said the Trifaldi, that it is with a peg, 

‘ Clavo, a nail or spike (peg) ; leno^ a log (wood). 

VoL. II. — 18 


274 


DON QUIXOTE. 


by turning which to one side or the other the knight who rides 
him makes him go as he pleases, either through the upper air, 
or skimming and almost sweeping the earth, or else in that 
middle course that is sought and followed in all well-regulated 
proceedings/’^ 

“ I ’d like to see him,” said Sancho ; but to fancy I ’m going 
to mount him, either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask 
pears of the elm-tree. ^ A good joke indeed ! I can hardly keep 
my seat upon Dapple, and on a pack-saddle softer than silk 
itself, and here they ’d have me hold on upon haunches of plank 
without pad or cushion of any sort ! Gad, I have no notion of 
bruising myself to get rid of any one’s beard ; let each one 
shave himself as best he can ; I ’m not going to accompany my 
master on any such long journey; besides, I can’t give any 
help to the shaving of these beards as I can to the disenchant- 
ment of my lady Dulcinea.” 

Yes, you can, my friend,” replied the Trifaldi ; and so 
much, that without you, so I understand,we shall be able do 
nothing.” 

In the king’s name ! ” exclaimed Sancho, what have 
squires got to do with the adventures of their masters ? Are 
they to have the fame of such as they go through, and we the 
labor ? Body o’ me ! if the historians would only say, ^ such 
and such a knight finished such and such an adventure, but 
with the help of so and so, his squire, without which it would 
have been impossible for him to accomplish it ; ’ but they write 
curtly, ^ Don Paralipomenon of the Three Stars accomplished 
the adventure of the six monsters : ’ without mentioning such 
a person as his squire, who was there all the time, just as if 
there was no such being. Once more, sirs, I say my master 
may go alone, and much good may it do him ; and I ’ll stay 
here in the company of my lady the duchess ; and may be when 
he comes back, he will find the lady Dulcinea’s affair ever so 
much advanced ; for I mean in leisure hours, and at idle mo- 
ments, to give myself a spell of whipping without so much as 
a hair to cover me.” 

For all that you must go if it be necessary, my good San- 
cho,” said the duchess, for they are worthy folk who ask 
you ; and the faces of these ladies must not remain overgrown 
in this way because of your idle fears ; that would be a hard 
case indeed.” 


Vergil’s : in medio tutissimus ibis. 


2 Prov. 180. 


CHAPTER XL. 


275 


In the king’s name, once more ! ” said Sancho ; if this 
charitable work were to be done for the sake of damsels in 
confinement or charity-girls, a man might expose himself tt 
some hardships ; but to bear it for the sake of stripping 
beards off duennas ! Devil take it ! I ’d sooner see them al 
bearded, from the highest to the lowest, and from the mos^ 
prudish to the most affected.” 

“ You are very hard on duennas, Sancho my friend,” said 
the duchess ; you incline very much to the opinion of the 
Toledo apothecary. But indeed you are wrong ; there are 
duennas in my house that may serve as patterns of duennas ; 
and here is my Dona Eodriguez, who will not allow me to say 
otherwise.” 

Your excellence may say it if you like,” said the Eodri- 
guez ; “ for God knows the truth of everything ; and whether 
we duennas are good or bad, bearded or smooth, we are our 
mothers’ daughters like other women ; and as God sent us into 
the world, he knows why he did, and on his mercy I rely, and 
not on anybody’s beard.” 

Well, Senora Eodriguez, Senora Trifaldi, and present com- 
pany,” said Don Quixote, 1 trust in Heaven that it will look 
with kindly eyes upon your troubles, for Sancho will do as I 
bid him. Only let Clavileno come and let me find myself face 
to face with Malambruno, and I am certain no razor will shave 
you more easily than my sword shall shave Malambruno’s head 
off his shoulders ; for ^ God bears with the wicked, but not 
forever.’ ” ^ 

Ah ! ” exclaimed the Distressed One at this, “ may all the 
stars of the celestial regions look down upon your greatness 
with benign eyes, valiant knight, and shed every prosperity 
and valor upon your heart, that it may be the shield and safe- 
guard of the abused and downtrodden race of duennas, detested 
by apothecaries, sneered at by squires, and made game of by 
pages. Ill betide the jade that in the flower of her youth 
would not sooner become a nun than a duenna ! unfortunate 
beings that we are, we duennas ! Though we may be descended 
in the direct male line from Hector of Troy himself, our mis- 
tresse?-. never fail to address us as ^ you ’ if they think it makes 
queens of them. 0 giant Malambruno, though thou art an en- 
chanter, thou art true to thy promises. Send us now the peer- 
less Clavileno, that our misfortune may be brought to ar end j 

* Prov. 86. 


276 


DON QUIXOTE. 


for if the hot weather sets in and these beards of ours are still 
there, alas for our lot ! ” 

The Trifaldi said this in such a pathetic way that she drew 
tears from the eyes of all the bystanders, and made even 
Sancho’s fill up ; and he resolved in his heart to accompany 
his master to the uttermost ends of the earth, if so be the 
removal of the wool from those veritable countenances de- 
pended upon it. 


CHAPTEE XLL 

OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS 
PROTRACTED ADVENTURE. 

And now night came, and with it the appointed time for the 
arrival of the famous horse Clavileno, the non-appearance of 
which was already beginning to make Don Quixote uneasy, for it 
struck him that, as Malambruno was so long about sending it, 
either he himself was not the knight for whom the adventure was 
reserved, or else Malambruno did not dare to meet him in single 
combat. But lo ! suddenly there came into the garden four 
wild-men all clad in green ivy bearing on their shoulders a 
great wooden horse. They placed it on its feet on the ground, 
and one of the wild-men said, Let the knight who has heart 
for it mount this machine.’’ 

Here Sancho exclaimed, I don’t mount, for neither have I 
the heart nor am I a knight.” 

And let the squire, if he has one,” continued the wild-man, 

take his seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Mal- 
ambruno ; for by no sword save his, nor by the malice of any 
other, shall he be assailed. It is but to turn this peg the horse 
has in his neck,’ and he will bear them through the air to 
where Malambruno awaits them ; but lest the vast elevation of 
their course should make them giddy, their eyes must be 
covered until the horse neighs, which will be the sign of their 
having completed their journey.” 

^ We were told before that the peg was in the forehead, a very incon- 
venient position for the rider. In the magic horse in the Arabian Nights 
it was in the neck. In the case of Chaucer’s " Stede of hras,” to guide 
him — 

" Ye moten trill a pin stont in his ere.” 


CHAPTER XLL 


277 


With these words, leaving Clavilefio behind them, they re- 
tired with easy dignity the way they came. As soon as the 
Distressed One saw the horse, almost in tears she exclain;ed to 
Don Quixote, Valiant knight, the promise of Malambruno has 
proved trustworthy ; the horse has come, our beards are grow- 
ing, and by every hair in them we all of us implore thee to 
shave and shear uSj as it is only mounting him with thy squire 
and making a happy beginning with your new journey.’’ 

“ That I will, Senora Countess Trif aldi,” said Don Quixote, 

most gladly and with right good-will, without stopping to 
take a cushion or put on my spurs, so as not to lose time, 
such is my desire to see you, senora, and all these duennas 
shaved clean.” 

That I won’t,” said Sancho^ with good will or bad will, or 
any way at all ; and if this shaving can’t be done without my 
mounting on the croup, my master had better look out for 
another squire to go with him, and these ladies for some other 
way of making their faces smooth ; I ’m no witch to have a 
taste for travelling through the air. What would my islanders 
say when they heard their governor was going strolling about 
on the winds ? And another thing, as it is three thousand and 
odd leagues from this to Kandy, if the horse tires, or the giant 
take huff, we ’ll be half a dozen years getting back, and there 
won’t be isle or island in the world that will know me : and so, 
as it is a common saying ‘ in delay there ’s danger,’ and ^ when 
they offer thee a heifer run with a halter,’ ^ these ladies’ beards 
must excuse me ; ^ Saint Peter is very well in Eome ; ’ ^ 1 
mean I am very well in this house where so much is made of 
me, and I hope for such a good thing from the master as to see 
myself a governor.” 

^‘ Friend Sancho,” said the duke at this, the island that I 
have promised you is not a moving one, or one that will run 
away ; it has roots so deeply buried in the bowels of the earth 
that it will be no easy matter to pluck it up or shift it from 
where it is ; you know as well as I do that there is no sort of 
office of any importance that is not obtained by a bribe of some 
kind, great or small ; well then, that which I look to receive 
for this government is that you go with your master Don Qui- 
xote, and bring this memorable adventure to a conclusion ; and 
whether you return on Clavileho as quickly as his speed seems 
to promise, or adverse fortune brings you back on foot travel- 
1 Prov. 222, 236. * Prov. 206. 


278 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ling as a pilgrim from hostel to hostel and from inn to inn, 
you will always find your island on your return where you left 
it, and your islanders with the same eagerness they have 
always had to receive you as their governor, and my good-will 
will remain the same ; doubt not the truth of this, Senor 
Sancho, for that would be grievously wronging my disposition 
to serve you.” 

“ Say no more, senor,” said Sancho ; I am a poor squire 
and not equal to carrying so much courtesy ; let my master 
mount ; bandage my eyes and commit me to God’s care, and 
tell me if I may commend myself to our Lord or call upon the 
angels to protect me when we go towering up there.” 

To this the Trifaldi made answer, Sancho, you may freely 
commend yourself to God or wljom you will ; for Malambruno 
though an enchanter is a Christian, and works his enchant- 
ments with great circumspection, taking very good care not 
to fall out with any one.” 

Well then,” said Sancho, God and the most holy Trinity 
of Gaeta give me help ! 

Since the meraoraoie adventure of the fulling mills,” said 
Don Quixote, I have never seen Sancho in such a fright as 
now ; were I as superstitious as others his abject fear would 
cause me some little trepidation of spirit. But come here, 
Sancho, for with the leave of these gentles I would say a word 
or two to thee in private ; ” and drawing Sancho aside among 
the trees of the garden and seizing both his hands he said, 
“ Thou seest, brother Sancho, the long journey we have before 
us, and God knows when we shall return, or what leisure or 
opportunities this business will allow us ; I wish thee therefore 
to retire now to thy chamber, as though thou wert going to 
fetch something required for the road, and in a trice give thy- 
self if it be only five hundred lashes on account of the three 
thousand three hundred to which thou art bound ; it will be 
all to the good, and to make a beginning with a thing is to 
have it half finished.” 

By God,” said Sancho, but your worship must be out of 
your senses ! This is like the common saying, ^ You see me 
with child, and you want me a virgin.’ Just as I’m about 
to go sitting on a bare board, your worship would have 
me score my backside ! Indeed, indeed, your worship is not 
reasonable. Let us be off to shave these duennas ; and on 
our return I promise on my word to make such haste to wipe 


CHAPTER XLL 


279 


off all that due as will satisfy your worship ; I can^t say 
more/’ 

Well, I will comfort myself with that promise, my good 
Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, and I believe thou wilt keep 
it ; for indeed though stupid thou art veracious.” 

I ’m not voracious,” said Sancho, only peckish ; but even 
if I was a little, still I ’d keep my word.” * 

With this they went back to mount Claviieno, and as they 
were about to do so Don Quixote said, “ Cover thine eyes, 
Sancho, and mount ; for one who sends for us from lands so 
far distant can not mean to deceive us for the sake of the paltry 
glory to be derived from deceiving persons who trust in him ; 
though all should turn out the contrary of what I hope, no 
malice will be able to dim the glory of having undertaken this 
exploit.” 

Let us be off, senor,” said Sancho, for I have taken the 
beards and tears of these ladies deeply to heart, and I shan’t 
eat a bite to relish it until I have seen them restored to their 
former smoothness. Mount, your worship, and blindfold your- 
self, for if I am to go on the croup, it is plain the rider in the 
saddle must mount first.” 

“ That is true,” said Don Quixote, and, taking a handker- 
chief out of his pocket, he begged the Distressed One to 
bandage his eyes very carefully ; but after having them 
bandaged he uncovered them again, saying, If my memory 
does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of the Palladium of 
Troy, a wooden horse the G-reeks offered to the goddess Pallas, 
which was big with armed knights, who were afterwards the 
destruction of Troy ; so it would be as well to see, first of all, 
what Claviieno has in his stomach.” 

“ There is no occasion,” said the Distressed One ; “ I will 
be bail for him, and I know that Malambruno has nothing 
tricky or treacherbus about him ; you may mount without any 
fear, Senor Don Quixote ; on my head be it if any harm befalls 
you.” 

Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with 
regard to his safety would be putting his courage in an un- 
favorable light ; and so, without more words, he mounted 
Clavilefio, and tried the peg, which turned easily ; and as he 

* Sancho in the original mistakes his master’s veridico for a diminutive 
of verde^ green, and replies, “I’m not green but brown, but even if I was 
mixture I ’d keep my word.” 


280 


DON QUIXOTE. 


had no stirrups and his legs hung down, he looked like nothing 
so much as a figure in some Eoman triumph painted or em- 
broidered on a Flemish tapestry. 

Much against the grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded 
to mount, and, after settling himself as well as he could on 
the croup, found it rather hard and not at all soft, and asked 
the duke if it would be possible to oblige him with a pad of 
some kind, or a cushion ; even if it were off the couch of his 
lady the duchess, or the bed of one of the pages ; as the 
haunches of that horse were more like marble than wood. On 
this the Trifaldi observed that Clavileno would not bear any 
kind of harness or trappings, and that his best plan would be 
to sit sideways like a woman, as in that way he would not 
feel the hardness so much. 

Sancho did so, and, bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes 
to be bandaged, but immediately afterwards uncovered them 
again, and looking tenderly and tearfully on those in the 
garden, bade them help him in his present strait with plenty 
of Paternosters and Ave Marias, that God might provide some 
one to say as many for them, whenever they found themselves 
in a similar emergency. 

At this Don Quixote exclaimed, “Art thou on the gallows, 
thief, or at thy last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that 
sort ? Cowardly, spiritless creature, art thou not in the very 
place the fair Magalona occupied, and from which she descended, 
not into the grave, but to become Queen of France ; unless the 
histories lie ? And I who am here beside thee, may I not put 
myself on a par with the valiant Pierres, who pressed this 
very spot that I now press ? Cover thine eyes, cover thine 
eyes, abject animal, and let not thy fear escape thy lips, at 
least, in my presence.’’ 

“ Let them blindfold me,” said Sancho ; “ as you won’t let 
me commend myself or be commended to God, is it any 
wonder if I am afraid there is a region of devils about here 
that will carry us off to Peralvillo ? ” ’ 

They were then blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding him- 
self settled to his satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant 
he placed his fingers on it, all the duennas and all who stood 
by lifted up their voices exclaiming, “ God guide thee, valiant 
knight ! God be with thee, intrepid squire ! Now, now ye 

* Peralvillo, a small town near Ciudad Real, where the Holy Brother- 
hood used to execute their prisoners. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


281 


go cleaving the air more swiftly than an arrow ! Now ye begin 
to amaze and astonish all who are gazing at you from the earth ! 
Take care not to wobble about, valiant Sancho ! Mind thou 
fall not, for thy fall will be worse than that rash youth’s who 
tried to steer the chariot of his father the Sun ! ” 

As Sancho heard the voices, clinging tightly to his master 
and winding his arms round him, he said, “ Senor, how do they 
make out we are going up so high, if their voices reach us here 
and they seem to be speaking quite close to us ? ” 

Don’t mind that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; for as 
affairs of this sort and flights like this are out of the common 
course of things, you can see and hear as much as you like a 
thousand leagues off ; but don’t squeeze me so tight or thou 
wilt upset me ; and really I know not what thou hast to be 
uneasy or frightened at, for I can safely swear I never mounted 
a smoother-going steed all the days of my life ; one would fancy 
we never stirred from one place. Banish fear, my friend, for 
indeed everything is going as it ought, and we have the wind 
astern.” 

“ That ’s true,” said Sancho, for such a strong wind comes 
against me on this side, that it seems as if people were blow- 
ing on me with a thousand pair of bellows ; ” which was the 
case ; they were puffing at him with a great pair of bellows ; 
for the whole adventure was so well planned by the duke, the 
duchess, and their majordomo, that nothing was omitted to 
make it perfectly successful. 

Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, “ Beyond a doubt, 
Sancho, we must have already reached the second region of the 
air, where the hail and snow are generated ; the thunder, the 
lightning, and the thunderbolts are engendered in the third 
region, and if we go on ascending at this rate, we shall shortly 
plunge into the region of fire, and I know not how to regulate 
this peg, so as not to mount up where we shall be burned.” 

And now they began to warm their faces, from a distance, 
with tow that could be easily set on fire and extinguished again, 
fixed on the end of a cane. On feeling the heat Sancho said. 

May I die if • we are not already in that fire place, or very 
near it, for a good part of my beard has been singed, and I 
have a mind, senor, to uncover and see whereabouts we are.” 

“ Do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote ; remember 
the true story of the licentiate Torralva that the devils carried 
flying through the air riding on a stick with his eyes shut j 


282 


DON QUIXOTE. 


who in twelve hours reached Eome and dismounted at Torre 
di Nona, which is a street of the city, and saw the whole sack 
and storming and the death of Bourbon, and was back in Mad- 
rid the next morning, where he gave an account of all he had 
seen ; ^ and he said moreover that as he was going through the 
air, the devil bade him open his eyes, and he did so, and saw 
himself so near the body of the moon, so it seemed to him, that 
he could have laid hold of it with his hand, and that he did not 
dare to look at the earth lest he should be seized with giddi- 
ness. So that, Sancho, it will not do for us to uncover our- 
selves, for he who has us in charge will be responsible for us ; 
and perhaps we are gaining an altitude and mounting up to 
enable us to descend at one swoop on the Kingdom of Kandy, 
as the saker or falcon does on the heron, so as to seize it how- 
ever high it may soar ; and though it seems to us not half an 
hour since we left the garden, believe me we must have trav- 
elled a great distance.’’ 

I don’t know how that may be,” said Sancho ; all I know 
is that if the Senora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with 
this croup, she could not have been very tender of flesh.” * 

The duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening 
to the conversation of the two heroes, and were beyond meas- 
ure amused by it ; and now, desirous of putting a finishing 
touch to this rare and well-contrived adventure, they applied 
a light to Clavileno’s tail with some tow, and the horse, being 
full of squibs and crackers, immediately blew up with a pro- 
digious noise, and brought Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to 
the ground half singed. By this time the bearded band of 
duennas, the Trifaldi and all, had vanished from the garden, 
and those that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in a 
swoon. Don Quixote and Sancho got up rather shaken, and, 
looking about them, were filled with amazement at finding 
themselves in the same garden from which they had started, 
and seeing such a number of people stretched on the ground ; 
and their astonishment was increased when at one side of the 
garden they perceived a tall lance planted in the ground, and 

* Dr. Eugenio Torralva, tried in 1.528 at Cuenca on various charges of 
dealing in magic. One was that he claimed to have made the journey 
from Madrid to Rome in one night riding on a stick. “Bourbon” is the 
Duke who was killed at the taking of Rome bv the Imperialists in May 
1527. 

* Sancho in his trouble confuses Magalona with the great Portuguese 
navigator. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


283 


hanging from it by two cords of green silk a smooth, white 
parchment on which there was the following inscription in 
large gold letters : ‘‘ The illustrious knight Don Quixote of La 
Mancha has, by merely attempting it, finished and concluded 
the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the 
Distressed Duenna ; Malambruno is now satisfied on every 
point, the chins of the duennas are now smooth and clean, and 
King Don Clavigo and Queen Antonomasia in their original 
form; and when the squirely flagellation shall have been com- 
pleted, the white dove shall find herself delivered from the 
pestiferous gerfalcons that persecute her, and in the arms 
of her beloved mate ; for such is the decree of the sage Mer- 
lin, arch-enchanter of enchanters.’^ 

As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the 
parchment he perceived clearly that it referred to the disen- 
chantment of Dulcinea, and returning hearty thanks to Heaven 
that he had with so little danger achieved so grand an exploit 
as to restore to their former complexion the countenances of 
those venerable duennas, now no longer visible, he advanced 
towards the duke and duchess, who had not yet come to them- 
selves, and taking the duke by the hand he said, Be of good 
cheer, worthy sir, be of good cheer ; it ’s nothing at all ; the 
adventure is now over and without any harm done, as the 
inscription fixed on this post shows plainly.” 

The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering 
consciousness after a heavy sleep, and the duchess and all who 
had fallen prostrate about the garden did the same, with such 
demonstrations of wonder and amazement that they would have 
almost persuaded one that what they pretended so adroitly in 
jest had happened to them in reality. The duke read the 
placard with half-shut eyes, and then ran to embrace Don Qui- 
xote with open arms, declaring him to be the best knight that 
had ever been seen in any age. Sancho kept looking about for 
the Distressed One, to see what her face was like without the 
beard, and if she was as fair as her elegant person promised ; 
but they told him that, the instant Clavileno descended flam- 
ing through the air and came to the ground, the whole band of 
duennas with the Trifaldi vanished, and that they were already 
shaved and without a stump left. 

The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long 
journey, to which Sancho replied, I felt, senora, that we were 
flying through the region of fire, as my master told me, and I 


284 


DON QUIXOTE, 


wanted to uncover my eyes for a bit ; but my master, when 1 
asked leave to uncover myself, would not let me ; but as I have 
a little bit of curiosity about me, and a desire to know what is 
forbidden and kept from me, quietly and without any one see- 
ing me I drew aside the handkerchief covering my eyes ever so 
little, close to my nose, and from underneath looked towards 
the earth, and it seemed to me that it was altogether no bigger 
than a grain of mustard seed, and that the men walking on it 
were little bigger than hazel nuts ; so you may see how high 
we must have got to them.” 

To this the duchess said, Sancho, my friend, mind what you 
are saying ; it seems you could not have seen the earth, but 
only the men walking on it ; it is plain that if the earth looked 
to you like a grain of mustard seed, and each man like a hazel 
nut, one man alone would have covered the whole earth.” 

That is true,” said Sancho, but for all that I got a 
glimpse of a bit of one side of it, and saw it all.” 

Take care, Sancho,” said the duchess, with a bit of o^ie 
side one does not see the whole of what one looks at.” 

I don’t understand that way of looking at things,” said 
Sancho ; I only know that your ladyship will do well to bear 
in mind that as we were flying by enchantment so I might 
have seen the whole earth and all the men by enchantment, 
whatever way I looked ; and if you won’t believe this, no more 
will you believe that, uncovering myself nearly to the eye- 
brows, I saw myself so close to the sky that there was not a 
palm and a half between me and it ; and by everything that I 
can swear by, senora, it is mighty great ! And it so happened 
we came by where the seven she-goats are,' and by God and 
upon my soul, as in my youth I was a goatherd in my own 
country, as soon as I saw them I felt a longing to be among 
them for a little, and if I had not given way to it I think I ’d 
have burst. So I come and take, and what do I do ? without 
saying anything to anybody ,2 not even to my master, softly 
and quietly I got down from Clavileno and amused myself with 
the goats — which are like violets, like flowers — for nigh 
three-quarters of an hour ; and Clavileno never stirred or moved 
from one spot.” 

And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the 
goats,” said the duke, <^how did Senor Don Quixote amuse 
himself ? ” 

*i.e. the Pleiades. * Literally, “ saying nothing to nobody.” 


CHAPTER XLL 


285 


To which Don Quixote replied, As all these things and 
such like occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, 
it is no wonder that Sancho says what he does ; for my own 
part I can only say that I did not uncover my eye# either 
above or belojv, nor did I see sky or earth or sea or shore. It 
is true I felt that I was passing through the region of the air, 
and even that I touched that of fire ; but that we passed farther 
I cannot believe ; for the region of fire being between the 
heaven of the moon and the last region of the air, we could not 
have reached that heaven where the seven she-goats Sancho 
speaks of are without being burned ; and as we were not burned, 
either Sancho is lying or Sancho is dreaming.’’ 

I am neither lying nor dreaming,” said Sancho ; only ask 
me the tokens of those same goats, and you’ll see by that 
whether L ’m telling the truth or not.” 

“ Tell us them then, Sancho,” said the duchess. 

“ Two of them,” said Sancho, are green, two blood-red, two 
blue, and one a mixture of all colors.” 

An odd sort of goat, that,” said the duke ; in this earthly 
region of ours we have no such colors ; I mean goats of such 
colors.” 

That ’s very plain,” said Sancho ; of course there must be 
a difference between the goats of heaven and the goats of the 
earth.” 

“ Tell me, Sancho,” said the duke, did you see any he-goat 
among those she-goats ? ” 

No, senor,” said Sancho ; but I have heard say that none 
ever passed the horns of the moon.” 

They did not care to ask him anything more about his 
journey, for they saw he was in the vein to go rambling all 
over the heavens giving an account of everything that went 
on there, without having ever stirred from the garden. Such, 
in short, was the end of the adventure of the Distressed 
Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not 
only for the time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho 
something to talk about for ages, if he lived so long ; but Don 
Quixote, coming close to his ear, said to him, Sancho, as you 
would have us believe what you saw in heaven, I require you 
to believe me as to what I saw in the cave of Montesinos ; I 
say no more.” 


286 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTER XLII. 

OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO 
PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE 'ISLAND, TO- 
GETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS. 

The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the success- 
ful and droll result of the adventure of the Distressed One, 
that they resolved to carry on the joke, seeing what a fit sub- 
ject they had to deal with for making it all pass for reality. 
So having laid their plans and given instructions to their ser- 
vants and vassals how to behave to Sancho in his government 
of the promised island, the next day, that following Clavileno^s 
flight, the duke told Sancho to prepare and get ready to go and 
be governor, for his islanders were already looking out for him 
as for the showers of May. 

Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, “ Ever since I 
came down from heaven, and from the top of it beheld the 
earth, and saw how little it is, the great desire I had to be a 
governor has been partly cooled in me ; for what is there grand 
in being ruler on a grain of mustard seed, or what dignity or 
authority in governing half a dozen men about as big as hazel 
nuts ; for, so far as I could see, there were no more on the 
whole earth ? If your lordship would be so good as to give 
me ever so small a bit of heaven, were it no more than half 
a league, I ’d rather have it than the best island in the world.’’ 

Take notice, friend Sancho,” said the duke, I can not give 
a bit of heaven, no not so much as the breadth of my nail, to 
any one ; rewards and favors of that sort are reserved for God 
alone. What I can give I give you, and that is a real, genuine 
island, compact, well-proportioned, and uncommonly fertile and 
fruitful, where, if you know how to use your opportunities, you 
may, with the help of the world’s riches, gain those of heaven.” 

Well then,” said Sancho, let the island come ; and I ’ll try 
and be such a governor, that in spite of scoundrels I ’ll go to 
heaven ; and it ’s not from any craving to quit my own humble 
condition or better myself, but from the desire I have to try 
what it tastes like to be a governor.” 

If you once make trial of it, Sancho,” said the duke, you ’ll 
eat your fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is 
it to command and be obeyed. Depend upon it when your 


CHAPTER XL II. 


287 


master comes to be emperor (as he will beyond a doubt from 
the course his affairs are taking), it will be no easy matter to 
wrest the dignity from him, and he will be sore and sorry at 
heart to have been so long without becoming one.” 

Senor,” said Sancho, it is my belief it’s a good thing to 
be in command, if it ’s only over a drove of cattle.” 

^^May I be buried with you, Sancho,” said the duke, ^^but 
you know everything ; I hope you will make as good a gov- 
ernor as your sagacity promises, and that is all I have to say ; 
and now remember to-morrow is the day you must set out for 
the government of the island, and this evening they will pro- 
vide you with the proper attire for you to wear, and all things 
requisite for your departure.” 

Let them dress me as they like,” said Sancho ; however 
I ’m dressed I ’ll be Sancho Panza.” 

That ’s true,” said the duke ; but one’s dress must be 
suited to the office or rank one holds ; for it would not do for 
a jurist to dress like a soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You, 
Sancho, shall go partly as a lawyer, partly as a captain, for, in 
the island I am giving you, arms are needed as much as letters, 
and letters as much as arms.” 

Of letters I know but little,” said Sancho, for I don’t even 
know the A B C 5 but it is enough for me to have the Christus^ 
in my memory to be a good governor. As for arms, I ’ll handle 
those they give me till I drop, and then, God be my help ! ” 

With so good a memory,” said the duke, Sancho can not 
go wrong in anything.” 

Here Don Quixote joined them ; and learning what passed, 
and how soon Sancho was to go to his government, he with 
the duke’s permission took him by the hand, and retired to 
his room with him for the purpose of giving him advice as to 
how he was to demean himself in his office. As soon as they 
had entered the chamber he closed the door after him, and 
almost by force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a 
quiet tone thus addressed him : I give infinite thanks to 
Heaven, friend Sancho, that before I have met with any good 
luck, fortune has come forward to meet thee. I who counted 
upon my good fortune to discharge the recompense of thy ser- 
vices, find myself still waiting for advancement, while thou, 
before the time, and contrary to all reasonable expectation, 

‘ The cross prefixed to the alphabet in schoolbooks ; no saber el Cristus, 
is to know nothing at all. 


288 


DON QUIXOTE. 


seest thyself blessed in the fulfilment of thy desires. Some 
will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early, entreat, persist, without at- 
taining the object of their suit ; while another comes, and 
without knowing why or wherefore, finds himself invested 
with the place or office so many have sued for ; and here it is 
that the common saying, ^ There is good luck as well as bad 
luck in suits,’ applies. Thou, who, to my thinking, art beyond 
all doubt a dullard, without early rising or night watching or 
taking any trouble, with the mere breath of knight-errantry 
that has breathed upon thee, seest thyself without more ado 
governor of an island, as though it were a mere matter of 
course. This I say, Sancho, that thou attribute not the favor 
thou hast received to thine own merits, but give thanks to 
Heaven that disposes matters beneficently, and secondly thanks 
to the great power the profession of knight-errantry contains 
in itself. With a heart, then, inclined to believe what I have 
said to thee, attend, my son, to thy Cato here^ who would 
counsel thee and be thy pole-star and guide to direct and pilot 
thee to a safe haven out of this stormy sea wherein thou art 
about to ingulf thyself ; for offices and great trusts are noth- 
ing else but a mighty gulf of troubles. 

First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of 
him is wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught. 

“ Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to 
know thyself, the most difficult thing to know that the mind 
can imagine. If thou knowest thyself, it will follow thou wilt 
not puff thyself up like the frog that strove to make himself as 
large as the ox ; if thou dost, the recollection of having kept 
pigs in thine own country will serve as the ugly feet for the 
wheel of thy folly.” ^ 

That ’s the truth,” said Sancho ; but that was when I was 
a boy ; afterwards when I was something more of a man it was 
geese I kept, not pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing 
to do with it ; for not all who are governors come of a kingly 
stock.” 

True,” said Don Quixote, and for that reason those who 
are not of noble origin should take care that the dignity of 
the office they hold be accompanied by a gentle suavity, which 

^ i.e. Dionysius Cato, author of the Disticha. 

* In allusion to the fable that the peacock’s pride in his tail is tempered 
when he contemplates his ugly feet. In Spanish the expanded tail of the 
peacock is called his wheel — rueda. 


CHAPTER XLIL 


289 


wisely managed will save them from the sneers of malice that 
no station escapes. 

“ Glory in thy humble birth, Sancho, and be not ashamed of 
saying thou art peasant-born ; for when it is seen thou art not 
ashamed no one will set himself to put thee to the blush ; and 
pride thyself rather upon being one of lowly virtue than a lofty 
sinner. Countless are they who, born of mean parentage, have 
risen to the highest dignities, pontifical and imperial, and of the 
truth of this I could give thee instances enough to weary thee. 

“ Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take 
a pride in doing virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to 
envy those who are born princes and lords, for blood is an 
inheritance, but virtue an acquisition,^ and virtue has in itself 
a worth that blood does not possess. 

This being so, if perchance any one of thy kinsfolk should 
come to see thee when thou art in thine island, thou art not to 
repel or slight him, but on the contrary to welcome him, enter- 
tain him, and make much of him ; for in so doing thou wilt be 
approved of Heaven (which is not pleased that any should 
despise what it hath made), and wilt comply with the laws of 
well-ordered nature. 

If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for 
those that administer governments to be long without their 
wives), teach and instruct her, and strive to smooth down her 
natural roughness ; for all that may be gained by a wise gov- 
ernor may be lost and wasted by a boorish stupid wife. 

If perchance thou art left a widower — a thing which may 
happen — and in virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher 
degree, choose not one to serve thee for a hook, or for a fishing- 
rod, or for the hood of thy ^ won’t have it ; ’ ^ for verily, I tell 
thee, for all the judge’s wife receives, the husband will be held 
accountable at the general calling to account ; where he will 
have to repay in death fourfold, items that in life he regarded 
as naught. 

Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favored by 
ignorant men who plume themselves on cleyerness. 

Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more com- 
passion, but not more justice, than the pleadings of the rich. 

*Prov. 213. 

*Prov. 38. An allusion to the popular joke against the begging friars, 
who were said to make a pretence of refusing gifts ; hinting, however, 
that they might be thrown into their hood. 

VoL. II. — 19 


290 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and 
presents of the rich man, as amid the sobs and entreaties of 
the poor. 

When equity may and should be brought into play, press 
not the utmost rigor of the law against the guilty ; for the 
reputation of the stern judge stands not higher than that of 
the compassionate. 

If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, 
let it be not by the weight of a gift, but by that of mercy. 

If it should happen to thee to give judgment in the cause 
of one who is thine enemy, turn thy thoughts away from thy 
injury and fix them on the justice of the case. 

Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man^s 
cause ; for the errors thou wilt thus commit will be most fre- 
quently irremediable ; or if not, only to be remedied at the ex- 
pense of thy good name and fortune. 

If any handsome woman come to seek justice of thee, turn 
away thine eyes from her tears and thine ears from her lamenta- 
tions, and consider deliberately the merits of her demand, if 
thou wouldst not have thy reason swept away by her weeping, 
and thy rectitude by her sighs. 

Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, 
for the pain of punishment is enough for the unfortunate with- 
out the addition of thine objurgations. 

Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy juris- 
diction is but a miserable man subject to all the propensities 
of our depraved nature, and so far as may be in thy power 
show thyself lenient and forbearing ; for though the attributes 
of God are all equal, to our eyes that of mercy is brighter and 
loftier than that of justice. 

If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy 
days will be long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy 
felicity unutterable ; thou wilt marry thy children as thou 
wouldst ; they and thy grandchildren will bear titles ; thou 
wilt live in peace and concord with all men ; and, when life 
draws to a close^^ death will come to thee in calm and ripe old 
age, and the light and loving hands of thy great-grandchildren 
will close thine eyes. 

^^What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions 
for the adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which 
tend to that of the body.^’ 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


291 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE 
SANCHO PANZA. 

Who, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would 
not have set him down for a person of great good sense and 
greater rectitude of purpose ? But, as has been frequently 
observed in the course of this great history, he only talked 
nonsense when he touched on chivalry, and in discussing all 
other subjects showed that he had a clear and unbiassed under- 
standing ; so that at every turn his acts gave the lie to his 
intellect, and his intellect to his acts ; but in the case of these 
second counsels that he gave Sancho he showed himself to 
have a lively turn of humor, and displayed conspicuously his 
wisdom, and also his folly. 

Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and en- 
deavored to fix his counsels in his memory, like one who 
meant to follow them and by their means bring the full 
promise of his government to a happy issue. Don Quixote, 
then, went on to say : 

“ With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern 
thy person and thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to 
give thee is to be clean, and to cut thy nails, not letting them 
grow as some do, whose ignorance makes them fancy that long 
nails are an ornament to their hands, as if those excrescences 
they neglect to cut were nails, and not the talons of a lizard- 
catching kestrel — a filthy and unnatural abuse. 

Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho ; for disordered attire is a 
sign of an unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenliness and 
slackness is to be set down to craft, as was the common 
opinion in the case of Julius Caesar.^ 

Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth ; and if 
it will allow thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them 
respectable and serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, 
and divide them between thy servants and the poor ; that is 
to say, if thou canst clothe six pages, clothe three and three 
poor men, and thus thou wilt have pages for heaven and pages 
for earth ; the vainglorious never think of this new mode of 
giving liveries. 


Suetonius : Jul. Cas. c. 46. 


292 


DOiV QUIXOTE. 


Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish 
origin by the smell ; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but 
not in such a way as to make it seem thou art listening to thy- 
self ; for all affectation is bad/ 

Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still ; ^ for the health 
of the whole body is forged in the workshop of the stomach. 

Be temperate in drinking, bearing in mind that wine in 
excess keeps neither secrets nor promises. 

Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to 
eruct in anybody’s presence.” 

Eruct ! ” said Sancho ; “ I don’t know what that means.” 

To eruct, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, means to belch, 
and that is one of the filthiest words in the Spanish language, 
though a very expressive one ; and therefore nice folk have had 
recourse to the Latin, and instead of belch say eruct, and instead 
of belches say eructations ; and if some do not understand these 
terms it matters little, for custom will bring them into use in the 
course of time, so that they will be readily understood ; that is 
the way a language is enriched ; custom and the public are all- 
powerful there.” ® 

“ In truth, senor,” said Sancho, one of the counsels and 
cautions I mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for 
I ’m constantly doing it.” 

Eruct, Sancho, not belch,” said Don Quixote. 

Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget 
it,” said Sancho. 

Likewise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ thou must not 
mingle such a quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as thou 
dost ; for though proverbs are short maxims, thou dost drag 
them in so often by the head and shoulders that they savor 
more of nonsense than of maxims.” 

“ God alone can cure that,” said Sancho ; for I have more 
proverbs in me than a book, and when I speak they come so 
thick together into my mouth that they fall to fighting among 
themselves to get out ; that ’s why my tongue lets fly the first 
that come, though they may not be pat to the purpose. But 
I ’ll take care henceforward to use such as befit the dignity of 
my office ; for ^ in a house where there ’s plenty, supper is soon 

' Prov. 3. * Prov. 54. 

^ That curious sixteenth-century manual of the manners of good society, 
the Galateo Espanol of Lucas Gracian Dantisco, very probably suggested 
this hint. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


293 


cooked/ and ^ lie who binds does not wrangle/ and ^ the bell- 
ringer in a safe berth/ and ‘ giving and keeping require 
brains/ ” ^ 

That ’s it, Sancho ! said Don Quixote ; “ pack, tack, string 
proverbs together ; nobody is hindering thee ! ^ My mother beats 
me, and I go on with my tricks/ ^ I am bidding thee avoid 
proverbs, and here in a second thou hast shot out a whole 
litany of them, which have as much to do with what we are 
talking about as ‘ over the hills of Ubeda/ * Mind, Sancho, I 
do not say that a proverb aptly brought in is objectionable ; but 
to pile up and string together proverbs at random makes con- 
versation dull and vulgar. 

“ When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy 
body on the back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or stick- 
ing out from the horse’s belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one 
would suppose thou wert on Dapple ; for the seat on a horse 
makes gentlemen of some and grooms of others. 

Be moderate in thy sleep ; for he who does not rise early 
does not get the benefit of the day ; and remember, Sancho, 
diligence is the mother of good fortune,^ and indolence, its 
opposite, never yet attained the object of an honest ambition. 

“ The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not 
tend to bodily improvement, I would have thee carry carefully 
in thy memory, for I believe it will be no less useful to thee 
than those I have given thee already, and it is this — never 
engage in a dispute about families, at least in the way of com- 
paring them one with another ; for necessarily one of those 
compared will be better than the other, and thou wilt be hated 
by the one thou hast disparaged, and get nothing in any shape 
from the one thou hast exalted. 

Thy attire shall be hose of full length, a long jerkin, and 
a cloak a trifle longer ; loose breeches by no means, for they 
are becoming neither for gentlemen nor for governors. 

For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me 
to advise thee ; as time goes by and occasions arise my instruc- 
tions shall follow, if thou take care to let me know how thou 
art circumstanced.” 

Senor,” said Sancho, “I see well enough that all these 
things your worship has said to me are good, holy, and profit- 
able ; but what use will they be to me if I don’t remember one 

* Provs. 41, 74, 200, and 71. * Prov. 45. 

» Prov. 234. ‘ Prov. 77. 


294 


DON QUIXOTE. 


of them ? To be sure that about not letting my nails grow, 
and marrying again if I have the chance, will not slip out of 
my head ; but all that other hash, muddle, and jumble — I 
don’t and can’t recollect any more of it than of last year’s 
clouds ; so it must be given me in writing ; for though I can’t 
either read or write, I ’ll give it to my confessor to drive it into 
me and remind me of it whenever it is necessary.” 

Ah, sinner that I am ! ” said Don Quixote, how bad it 
looks in governors not to know how to read or write ; for let 
me tell thee, Sancho, when a man knows not how to read, or 
is left-handed, it argues one of two things ; either that he was 
the son of exceedingly mean and lowly parents, or that he 
himself was so incorrigible and ill-conditioned that neither good 
company nor good teaching could make any impression on him. 
It is a great defect that thou laborest under, and therefore I 
would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name.” 

I can sign my name well enough,” said Sancho, for when 
I was steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to 
make certain letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which 
they told me made out my name. Besides I can pretend my 
right hand is disabled and make some one else sign for me, for 
‘ there ’s a remedy for everything except death ; ’ ^ and as I shall 
be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I like ; moreover, 
‘ he who has the alcalde for his father — ,’ ^ and I ’ll be gov- 
ernor, and that ’s higher than alcalde. Only come and see ! 
Let them make light of me and abuse me ; ^ they ’ll come for 
wool and go back shorn ^ ‘ whom God loves, his house is sweet 
to him ; ’ ^ ^ the silly sayings of the rich pass for saws in the 
world ; ’ ® and as I ’ll be rich, being a governor, and at the same 
time generous, as I mean to be, no fault will be seen in me. 
^ Only make yourself honey and the flies will suck you ; ’ ^ as 
much as thou hast so much art thou worth,’ as my grandmother 
used to say ; and ^ thou canst have no revenge of a man of sub- 
stance.’ ” ® 

“ Oh, God’s curse upon thee, Sancho ! ” here exclaimed Don 
Quixote ; sixty thousand devils fly away with thee and thy 

* Prov. 146. 

* Prov. 8. Seguro va & juicio — “ eoes into court with an easy mind.” 

3 Prov. 124. 

* Prov. 87. There is some uncertainty about this proverb; whether it 
is " his house is sweet to him,” or " his house knows it,” or, " his hunting 
[caza) is successful.” In the text of the early editions it is in the first 
form. Hartzenbusch prefers the last. 

6 Prov. 205. e Provs. 139, 221, and 16. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 


295 


proverbs ! For the last hour thou hast been stringing them 
together and inflicting the pangs of torture on me with every 
one of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to the gallows 
one day, I promise thee ; thy subjects will take the government 
from thee, or there will be revolts among them, all because of 
them. Tell me, where dost thou pick them up, thou booby ? 
How dost thou apply them, thou blockhead ? For with me, 
to utter one and make it apply properly, I have to sweat and 
labor as if I were digging.” 

“ By God, master mine,” said Sancho, “ your worship is mak- 
ing a fuss about very little. Why the devil should you be vexed 
if I make use of what is my own ? And I have got nothing 
else, nor any other stock in trade except proverbs and more 
proverbs; and here are four just this instant come into my 
head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a basket ; but I won’t 
repeat them, for ‘ Sage silence is called Sancho.’ ” ^ 

•^That, Sancho, thou art not,” said Don Quixote; for not 
only art thou not sage silence, but thou art pestilent prate and 
perversity ; still I would like to know what four proverbs have 
just now come into thy memory, for I have been turning over 
mine own — and it is a good one — and not one occurs to me.” 

‘‘ What can be better,” said Sancho, than ^ never put thy 
thumbs between two back teeth ; ’ and ^ to get out of my 
house ” and what do you want with my wife ? ” there is no 
answer ; ’ and < whether the pitcher hits the stone, or the stone 
the pitcher, it ’s a bad business for the pitcher ; ’ ® all which fit 
to a hair ? For no one should quarrel with his governor, or 
him in authority over him, because he will come off the worst, 
as he does who puts his finger between two back teeth, and if 
they are not back teeth it makes no difference, so long as they 
are teeth ; and to whatever the governor may say there ’s no 
answer, any more than to < get out of my house ’ and ‘ what do 
you want with my wife ? ’ and then, as for that about the stone 
and the pitcher, a blind man could see that. So that he who 
sees the mote in another’s eye had need to see the beam in his 
own, that it be not said of himself, ^ the dead woman was 
frightened at the one with her throat cut ; ’ and your worship 
knows well that the fool knows more in his own house than 
the wise man in another’s.” ® 

* Prov. 214. Possibly a corruption of santo — "holy;” another, and 
perhaps the older and more correct form, has " sage,” " prudent.” Garay 
gives it as in the text. 

* Provs. 142, 42, and 34. * Provs. 140, 143, and 43. 


296 


DON QUIXOTE. 


‘^Nay, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ^^the fool knows nothing, 
either in his own house or in anybody else’s, for no wise struct- 
ure of any sort can stand on a foundation of folly ; but let 
us say no more about it, Sancho, for if thou governest badly, 
thine will be the fault and mine the shame; but I comfort 
myself with having done my duty in advising thee 51s earnestly 
and as wisely as I could ; and thus I am released from my 
obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho, and 
govern thee in thy government, and deliver me from the mis- 
giving I have that thou wilt turn the whole island upside 
down, a thing I might prevent by explaining to the duke what 
thou art and telling him that all that fat little person of thine 
is nothing else but a sack full of proverbs and sauciness.’’ 

Senor,” said Sancho, if your worship thinks I ’m not fit 
for this government, I give it up on the spot ; for the mere 
black of the nail of my soul is dearer to me than my whole 
body ; and I can live just as well, simple Sancho, on bread and 
onions, as governor, on partridges and capons; and what’s 
more, while we’re asleep we’re all equal,* great and small, 
rich and poor. But if your worship looks into it, you will see 
it was your worship alone that put me on to this business of 
governing ; for I know no more about the government of islands 
than a buzzard ; and if there ’s any reason to think that be- 
cause of my being a governor the devil will get hold of me, I ’d 
rather go Sancho to heaven than governor to hell.” 

By God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, for those last words 
thou hast uttered alone, I consider thou deserve st to be gov- 
ernor of a thousand islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, 
without which no knowledge is worth anything ; commend thy- 
self to God, and try not to swerve in the pursuit of thy main 
object; I mean, always make it thy aim and fixed purpose to 
do right in all matters that come before thee, for Heaven always 
helps good intentions ; and now let us go to dinner, for I think 
my lord and lady are waiting for us.” 

* Prov. 92. 


CHAPTER XLIV, 


297 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, 

AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON 

QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE. 

It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, 
that when Cid Hamet came to write this chapter, his inter- 
preter did not translate it as he wrote it ^ — that is, as a kind 
of complaint the Moor made against himself for having taken 
in hand a story so dry and of so little variety as this of Don 
Quixote, for he found himself forced to speak perpetually of 
him and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in digressions 
and episodes more serious and more interesting. He said, too, 
that to go on, mind, hand, and pen always restricted to writing 
upon one single subject, and speaking through the mouths of 
a few characters, was intolerable drudgery, the result of which 
was never equal to the author’s labor, and that to avoid this 
he had in the First Part availed himself of the device of 
novels, like The Ill-advised Curiosity ” and The Captive Cap- 
tain,” which stand, as it were, apart from the story ; the others 
that are given there being incidents which occurred to Don 
Quixote himself and could not be omitted. He also thought, 
he says, that many, engrossed by the interest attaching to the 
exploits of Don Quixote, would take none in the novels, and 
pass them over hastily or impatiently without noticing the ele- 
gance and art of their composition, which would be very mani- 
fest were they published by themselves and not as mere 
-adjuncts to the crazes of Don Quixote or the simplicities of 
Sancho. Therefore in this Second Part he thought it best not 
to insert novels, either separate or interwoven, but only epi- 
sodes, something like them, arising out of the circumstances 
the facts present ; and even these sparingly, and with no more 
words than suffice to make them plain ; and as he confines and 
restricts himself to the narrow limits of the narrative, though 
he has ability, capacity, and brains enough to deal with the 
whole universe, he requests that his labors may not be despised, 
and that credit be given him, not for what he writes, but for 

* The original bringing a charge of misinterpretation against its transla- 
tor, is a confusion of ideas that it would not be easy to match. With 
regard to Cid Hamet’s apology, see Introduction, p. 63. 


298 


DON QUIXOTE. 


what he has refrained from writing ; and so he goes on with 
his story, saying that the day Don Quixote gave the counsels 
to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed them to 
him in writing so that he might get some one to read them to 
him. They had scarcely, however, been given to him when he 
let them drop, and they fell into the hands of the duke, who 
showed them to the duchess, and they were both amazed 
afresh at the madness and wit of Don Quixote. To carry on 
the joke, then, the same evening they despatched Sancho with 
a large following to the village that was to serve him for an 
island. It happened that the person who had him in charge 
was a majordomo of the duke’s, a man of great discretion and 
humor — and there can be no humor without discretion — j^nd 
the same who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in the 
comical way that has been already described ; and thus quali- 
fied, and instructed by his master and mistress as to how to 
deal with Sancho, he carried out their scheme admirably. Now 
it came to pass that as soon as Sancho saw this majordomo he 
seemed in his features to recognize those of the Trifaldi, and 
turning to his master, he said to him, Senor, either the devil 
will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing, or 
your worship will own to me that the face of this majordomo 
of the duke’s here is the very face of the Distressed One.” 

Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and hav- 
ing done so, said to Sancho, There is no reason why the devil 
should carry thee off, Sancho, either righteous or believing — 
and what thou meanest by that I know not ; ^ the face of the 
Distressed One is that of the majordomo, but for all that the 
majordomo is not the Distressed One ; for his being so would 
involve a mighty contradiction ; but this is not the time for, 
going into questions of the sort, which would be involving our- 
selves in an inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, 
we must pray earnestly to our Lord that he deliver us both from 
wicked wizards and enchanters.” 

“ It is no joke, senor,” said Sancho, for before this I heard 
him speak, and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi 
was sounding in my ears. Well, I’ll hold my peace ; but I’ll 
take care to be on the look-out henceforth for any sign that 
may be seen to confirm or do away with this suspicion.” 

• There is, in fact, some difference of opinion as to the meaning of the 
phrase. The Academy Dictionary gives " instantly ” — " on the spot j • ** 

Covarruhias " suddenly.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


299 


Thou wilt do well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and thou 
wilt let me know all thou disco verest on the subject, and all 
that befalls thee in thy government.” 

Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. 
He was dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gaban of tawny 
watered camlet over all and a montera cap of the same 
material, and mounted a la gineta upon a mule. Behind him, 
in accordance with the duke’s orders, followed Dapple with 
brand new ass-trappings and ornaments of silk, and from time 
to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass, so well pleased 
to have him with him that he would not have changed places 
with the Emperor of Germany. On taking leave he kissed 
the hands of the duke and duchess and got his master’s bless- 
ing, which Don Quixote gave him with tears, and he received 
blubbering. Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to 
him. Gentle Reader ; and look out for two bushels of laughter, 
which the account of how he behaved himself in office will 
give thee. In the meantime turn thy attention to what hap- 
pened to his master the same night, and if thou dost not laugh 
thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy mouth with a grin ; 
for Don Quixote’s adventures must be honored either with 
wonder or with laughter. 

It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don 
Quixote felt his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to 
revoke the mandate and take away the government from him, 
he would have done so. The duchess observed his dejection 
and asked him why he was melancholy ; because, she said, if 
it was for the loss of Sancho, there were squires, duennas, and 
damsels in her house who would wait upon him to his full 
satisfaction. 

The truth is, senora,” replied Don Quixote, that I do feel 
the loss of Sancho ; but that is not the main cause of my look- 
ing sad ; and of all the offers your excellence makes me, I 
accept only the good-will with which they are made, and as to 
the remainder I entreat of your excellence to permit and allow 
me alone to wait upon myself in my chamber.” 

Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, that must 
not be ; four of my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait 
upon you.” 

To me,” said Don Quixote, “ they will not be flowers, but 
thorns to pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, 
shall as soon enter my chamber as fly. If your highness 


300 


DON QUIXOTE. 


wishes to gratify me still further, though I deserve it not, 
permit me to please myself, and wait upon myself in my own 
room ; for I place a barrier between my inclinations and my 
virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule through the gener- 
osity your highness is disposed to display towards me ; and, in 
short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner than allow any one 
to undress me.’’ 

Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more,” said the 
duchess ; I assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, 
not to say a damsel, shall enter your home. I am not the one 
to undermine the propriety of Senor Don Quixote, for it strikes 
me that among his many virtues the one that is pre-eminent is 
that of modesty. Your worship may undress and dress in 
private and in your own way, as you please and when you 
please, for there will be no one to hinder you ; and in your 
chamber you will find all the utensils requisite to supply the 
wants of one who sleeps with his door locked, to the end that 
no natural needs compel you to open it. May the great 
Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand years, and may her fame 
extend all over the surface of the globe, for she deserves to be 
loved by a knight so valiant and so virtuous ; and may kind 
Heaven infuse zeal into the heart of our governor Sancho Panza 
to finish off his discipline speedily, so that the world may once 
more enjoy the beauty of so grand a lady.” 

To which Don Quixote replied, Your highness has spoken 
like what you are ; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing 
bad can come ; and Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and better 
known to the world by the praise of your highness than by all 
the eulogies the greatest orators on earth could bestow upon 
her.” 

“ Well, well, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, ‘‘ it is 
nearly supper-time, and the duke is probably waiting ; come, 
let us go to supper, and retire to rest early, for the journey 
you made yesterday from Kandy was not such a short one but 
that it must have caused you some fatigue.” 

I feel none, senora,” said Don Quixote, for I would go so 
far as to swear to your excellence that in all my life I never 
mounted a quieter beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than 
Clavilefio ; and I don’t know what could have induced Malam- 
bruno to discard a steed so swift and so gentle, and burn it so 
recklessly as he did.” 

Probably,” said the duchess, repenting of the evil he had 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


301 


done to the Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes 
he must have committed as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved 
to make away with all the instruments of his craft ; and so 
burned Clavileno as the chief one, and that which mainly kept 
him restless, wandering from land to land ; and by its ashes 
and the trophy of the placard the valor of the great Don 
Quixote of La Mancha is established forever.’’ 

Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess ; and having 
supped, retired to his chamber alone, refusing to allow any one 
to enter with him to wait on him, such was his fear of encoun- 
tering temptations that might lead or drive him to forget his 
chaste fidelity to his lady Dulcinea ; for he had always present 
to his mind the virtue of Amadis, that flower and mirror of 
knights-errant. He locked the door behind him, and by the 
light of two wax candles undressed himself, but as he was 
taking off his stockings — 0 disaster unworthy of such a per- 
sonage ! — there came a burst, not of sighs, or anything bely- 
ing his delicacy or good breeding, but of some two dozen 
stitches in one of his stockings, that made it look like a 
window-lattice. The worthy gentleman was beyond measure 
distressed, and just then he would have given an ounce of 
silver to have had half a drachm of green silk there ; I say 
green silk, because the stockings were green. 

Here Cid Hamet exclaimed as he was writing, 0 poverty, 
poverty ! I know not what could have possessed the great 
Cordovan poet to call thee ‘ holy gift ungratefully received.’ ’ 
Although a Moor, I know well enough from the intercourse I 
have had with Christians that holiness consists in charity, 
humility, faith, obedience, and poverty ; but for all that, I say 
he must have a great deal of godliness who can find any satis- 
faction in being poor ; unless, indeed, it be the kind of poverty 
one of the greatest saints refers to, saying, ^ possess all things 
as though ye possessed them not ; ’ ^ which is what they call 
poverty in spirit. But thou, that other poverty — for it is of 
thee I am speaking now — why dost thou love to fall out with 

* " O vida segura la mansa pobreza, 

Dadiva santa desagradecida.” 

Juan de Mena, El Laherinto^ copla 227. 

I suspect there is a touch of malice in the words "the great Cordovan 
poet.” To hear any other poet but Gongora so described would have 
made a Gongorist foam at the mouth. 

* Cid Hamet has mixed up two passages — 1 Cor. vii. 30, and 2 Cor- 
vi. 10. 


302 


DON QUIXOTE. 


gentlemen and men of good birth more than with other people ? 
Why dost thou compel them to smear the cracks in their shoes, 
and to have the buttons of their coats, one silk, another hair, 
and another glass ? Why must their ruffs be always crinkled 
like endive leaves, and not crimped with a crimping iron ? ” 
(From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch and 
crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on : Poor gentleman of good 
family ! always cockering up his honor, dining miserably and 
in secret, and making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which 
he sallies out into the street after eating nothing to oblige him 
to use it ! Poor fellow, I say, with his nervous honor, fancy- 
ing they perceive a league off the patch on his shoe, the 
sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and the 
hunger of his stomach ! ” ^ 

All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting 
of his stitches ; however, he comforted himself on perceiving 
that Sancho had left behind a pair of travelling boots, which 
he resolved to wear the next day. At last he went to bed, out 
of spirits and heavy at heart, as much because he missed 
Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to his stockings, 
the stitches of which he would have even taken up with silk 
of another color, which is one of the greatest signs of poverty 
a gentleman can show in the course of his never-failing em- 
barrassments. He put out the candles ; but the night was 
warm and he could not sleep ; he rose from his bed and opened 
slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful garden, 
and as he did so he perceived and heard people walking and 
talking in the garden. He set himself to listen attentively, 
and those below raised their voices so that he could hear these 
words : 

Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that 
ever since this stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld 
him, I cannot sing but only weep ; besides my lady is a light 
rather than a heavy sleeper, and I would not for all the wealth 
of the world that she found us here ; and even if she were 
asleep and did not waken, my singing would be in vain, if this 
strange jEneas, who has come into my neighborhood to flout 
me, sleeps on and wakens not to hear it.” 

Heed not that, dear Altisidoxa,” replied a voice ; the 

* The straits of the starving hidalgo were a favorite theme with the nov- 
elists and dramatists of the time. The difference of the treatment of the 
subject by the three good humorists, Mendoza in Lazarillo de Tormes., 
Cervantes here, and Quevedo in the Gran Taccmo., is very striking. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


303 


duchess is no doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save 
the lord of thy heart and disturber of thy soul; for just now 
I perceived him open the grated window of his chamber, so he 
must be awake ; sing, my poor sufferer, in a low sweet tone 
to the accompaniment of thy harp ; and even if the duchess 
hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the night.’^ 

That is not the point, Emerencia,’’ replied Altisidora, it 
is that I would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, 
and that I should be thought a light and wanton maiden by 
those who know not the mighty power of love ; but come what 
may ; better a blush on the cheek than a sore in the heart ; ” ^ 
and here a harp softly touched made itself heard. As he 
listened to all this Don Quixote was in a state of breathless 
amazement, for immediately the countless adventures like 
this, with windows, gratings, gardens, serenades, love-makings, 
and languishings, that he had read of in his trashy books of 
chivalry, came to his mind. He at once concluded that some 
damsel of the duchess’s was in love with him, and that her 
modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He trembled 
lest he should fall, and made an inward resolution not to yield ; 
and commending himself with all his might and soul to his 
lady Dulcinea he made up his mind to listen to the music ; 
and to let them know he was there he gave a pretended sneeze, 
at which the damsels were not a little delighted, for all they 
wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having 
tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings, 
began this ballad : 

0 thou that art above in bed. 

Between the holland sheets, 

A-lying there from night till morn, 

With outstretched legs asleep ; ^ 

0 thou, most valiant knight of all 
The famed Manchegan breed. 

Of purity and virtue more 
Than gold of Araby ; 

» ProT. 242. 

* Shelton in a characteristic note apologizes for this ballad and that in 
answer to it in chapter xlvi. by saying that the verses are made to bee 
scurvy on purpose by the author, so he observes neyther verse nor rime.” 
They are, of course, burlesque ballads, and the rhyme is the assonant 
which I have endeavored to imitate. 


304 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Give ear unto a suffering maid, 
Well-grown but evil-starr’d, 

For those two suns of thine have lit 
A fire within her heart. 

Adventures seeking thou dost rove, 

To others bringing woe ; 

Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm 
To heal them dost withhold ! 

Say, valiant youth, and so may God 
Thy enterprises speed. 

Didst thou the light mid Libya’s sands 
Or Jaca’s rocks first see ? 

Did scaly serpents give thee suck ? 

Who nursed thee when a babe ? 

Wert cradled in the forest rude. 

Or gloomy mountain cave ? 

0 Dulcinea may be proud, 

That plump and lusty maid ; 

• For she alone hath had the power 
A tiger fierce to tame. 

And she for this shall famous be 
From Tagus to Jarama, 

From Manzanares to Genii, 

From Duero to Arlanza. 

Fain would I change with her, and give 
A petticoat to boot, 

The best and bravest that I have. 

All trimmed with gold galloon. 

O for to be the happy fair 
Thy mighty arms enfold. 

Or even sit beside thy bed 
And scratch thy dusty poll I 


CHAPTER XLIV, 


305 


I rave, — to favors such as these 
Unworthy to aspire ; 

Thy feet to tickle were enough 
For one so mean as I. 

What caps, what slippers silver-laced, 

Would I on thee bestow ! 

What damask breeches make for thee ; 

What fine long holland cloaks ! 

And I would give thee pearls that should 
As big as oak-galls show ; 

So matchless big that each might well 
Be called the great “ Alone.” ^ 

Manchegan Nero, look not down 
From thy Tarpeian Eock 

Upon this burning heart, nor add 
The fuel of thy wrath. 

A virgin soft and young am I, 

Not yet fifteen years old ; 

(I ’m only three months past fourteen, 

I swear upon my soul). 

I hobble not nor do I limp. 

All blemish I ’m without. 

And as I walk my lily locks 
Are trailing on the ground. 

And though my nose be rather flat, 

And though my mouth be wide. 

My teeth like topazes exalt 
My beauty to the sky. 

Thou knowest that my voice is sweet. 

That is if thou dost hear ; 

And I am moulded in a form 
Somewhat below the mean. 

* One of the pearls of the Spanish crown was called La Sola^ being un 
matched for size. 

VOL. II. — 20 


306 


DON QUIXOTE. 


These charms, and many more, are thine, 

Spoils to thy spear and bow all j 
A damsel of this house am I, 

By name Altisidora. 

Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an 
end, while the warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm ; 
and with a deep sigh he said to himself, 0 that I should be 
such an unlucky knight that no damsel can set eyes on me but 
falls in love with me ! 0 that the peerless Dulcinea should be 

so unfortunate that they cannot let her enjoy my incomparable 
constancy in peace ! What would ye with her, ye queens ? 
Why do ye persecute her, ye empresses ? Why do ye pursue 
her, ye virgins of from fourteen to fifteen ? Leave the un- 
happy being to triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot love has 
been pleased to bestow upon her in surrendering my heart and 
yielding up my soul to her. Ye love-smitten host, know that 
to Dulcinea only I am dough and sugar-paste, flint to all 
others ; for her I am honey, for you aloes. For me Dulcinea 
alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous, graceful, and high-bred, and 
all others are ill-favored, foolish, light, and low-born. Nature 
sent me into the world to be hers and no other’s ; Altisidora 
may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belabored, me 
in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, 
but I must be Dulcinea’s, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and 
chaste, in spite of all the magic-working powers on earth.” 
And with that he shut the window with a bang, and, as much 
out of temper and out of sorts as if some great misfortune had 
befallen him, stretched himself on his bed, where we will 
leave him for the present, as the great Sancho Panza, who is 
about to set up his famous government, now demands our 
attention. 


CHAPTER XLV, 


307 


CHAPTER XLV. 

OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS 
ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERN- 
ING. 

O PERPETUAL discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, 
eye of heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-coolers ! ^ Thym- 
braeus here, Phoebus there, now archer, now physician, father 
of poetry, inventor of music ; thou that always risest and, not- 
withstanding appearances, never settest ! To thee, 0 Sun, by 
whose aid man begetteth man, to thee I appeal to help me and 
lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be able to proceed 
with scrupulous exactitude in giving an account of the great 
Sancho Panza’s government ; for without thee I feel myself 
weak, feeble, and uncertain. 

To come to the point, then — Sancho with all his attendants 
arrived at a village of some thousand inhabitants, and one of 
the largest the duke possessed. They informed him that it 
was called the island of Barataria, either because the name of 
the village was Baratario, or because of the joke by way of 
which the govefhment had been conferred upon him.^ On 
reaching the gates of the town, which was a walled one, the 
municipality came forth to meet him, the bells rang out a peal, 
and the inhabitants showed every sign of general satisfaction ; 
and with great pomp they conducted him to the principal church 
to give thanks to God, and then with burlesque ceremonies they 
presented him with the keys of the town, and acknowledged 
him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The 
costume, the beard, and the fat squat figure of the new gov- 
ernor astonished all those who were not in the secret, and even 
all who were, and they were not a few. Finally, leading him out 
of the church they carried him to the judgment seat and seated 

* Hartzenbusch thinks that this outburst is a caricature of a passage in 
some poem of the day, and that such imitations are not uncommon in Don 
Quixote. If so, we cannot wonder at it that Cervantes was not beloved by 
the high-flying poets of the period. 

® Barato now means cheap, but in old Spanish it was also a substantive 
meaning a trick or a practical joke. According to Pellicer the "island” 
was Alcala del Ebro, a village near Pedrola, on a peninsula formed by a 
bend of the Ebro. The critics have been much exercised by the identifi- 
cation of Barataria, which has always been with the Cervantistas a favor- 
ite hunting ground for political allusions. 


DON QUIXOTE. 


B08 

him on it, and the duke’s majordomo said to him, ^'It is an 
ancient custom in this island, senor governor, that he who comes 
to take possession of this famous island is bound to answer a 
question which shall be put to him, and which must be a some- 
what knotty and difficult one ; and by his answer the people 
take the measure of their new governor’s wit, and hail with joy 
or deplore his arrival accordingly.” 

While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was 
gazing at several large letters inscribed on the wall opposite 
his seat, and as he could not read he asked what that was 
painted on the wall. The answer was, Senor, there is 
written and recorded the day on which your lordship took 
possession of this island, and the inscription says, ^ This day, 
the so-and-so of such-and-such a month and year, Senor Don 
Sancho Panza took possession of this island ; many years may 
he enjoy it.’ ” 

“ And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza ? ” asked 
Sancho. 

Your lordship,” replied the majordomo ; for no other 
Panza but the one who is now seated in that chair has ever 
entered this island.” 

Well then, let me tell you, brother,” said Sancho, I 
have n’t got the ^ Don,’ nor has any one of my family ever had 
it ; my name is plain Sancho Panza, and Sancho was my 
father’s name, and Sancho was my grandfather’s, and they 
were all Panzas, without any Dons or Donas tacked on ; I 
suspect that in this island there are more Dons than stones ; 
but never mind ; God knows what I mean, and maybe if my 
government lasts four days I ’ll weed out these Dons that no 
doubt are as great a nuisance as the midges, they ’re so plenty.^ 
Let the majordomo go on with his question, and I ’ll give the 
best answer I can, whether the people deplore or not.” 

At this instant there came into court two old men, one 
carrying a cane by way of a walking-stick, and the one who 
had no stick said, “ Senor, some time ago I lent this good man 
ten gold-crowns in gold to gratify him and do him a service, 
on the condition that he was to return them to me whenever 
I should ask for them. A long time passed before I asked for 
them, for I would not put him to any greater straits to return 
them than he was in when I lent them to him ; but thinking 

• The title of Don, like that of Esquire in this country, was beginning 
to be assumed by persons who had no claim to it. Cervantes evidently 
had a strong opinion on the subject. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


309 


he was growing careless about payment I asked for them once 
and several times ; and not only will he not give them back, 
but he denies that he owes them, and says I never lent him 
any such crowns ; or if I did, that he repaid them ; and I have 
no witnesses either of the loan, or of the payment, for he never 
paid me ; I want your worship to put him to his oath, and if 
he swears he returned them to me I forgive him the debt here 
and before God.” 

What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick ? ” 
said Sancho. 

To which the old man replied, “ I admit, senor, that he lent 
them to me ; but let your worship lower your staff, and as he 
leaves it to my oath, I ’ll swear that I gave them back, and 
paid him really and truly.” 

The governor lowered the staff, and as he did so the old 
man who had the stick handed it to the other old man to hold 
for him while he swore, as if he found it in his way ; and 
then laid his hand on the cross of the staff, saying that it was 
true the ten crowns that were demanded of him had been lent 
him ; but that he had with his own hand given them back into 
the hand of the other, and that he, not recollecting it, was 
every minute asking for them. 

Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what 
answer he had to make to what his opponent said. He said 
that no doubt his debtor had told the truth, for he believed 
him to be an honest man and a good Christian, and he himself 
must have forgotten when and how he had given him back the 
crowns; and that from that time forth he would make no 
further demand upon him. 

The debtor took his stick again, and bowing his head left 
the court. Observing this, and how, without another word, he 
made off, and observing too the resignation of the plaintiff, 
Sancho buried his head in his bosom and remained for a short 
space in deep thought, with the forefinger of his right hand on 
his brow and nose ; then he raised his head and bade them call 
back the old man with the stick, for he had already taken his 
departure. They brought him back, and as soon as Sancho saw 
him he said, “ Honest man, give me that stick, for I want it.” 

“ Willingly,” said the old man ; ‘‘ here it is, senor,” and he 
put it into his hand. 

Sancho took it and handing it to the other old man, said to 
him, Go, and God be with you ; for now you are paid.” 


310 


DON QUIXOTE. 


I, senor ! ’’ returned the old man ; why, is this cane worth 
ten gold-crowns ? ’’ 

‘‘ Yes,’’ said the governor, ^^or if not I am the greatest dolt 
in the world ; now you will see whether I have got the head- 
piece to govern a whole kingdom ; ” and he ordered the cane to 
be broken in two, there, in the presence of all. It was done, 
and in the middle of it they found ten gold-crowns. All were 
filled with amazement, and looked upon their governor as 
another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the 
conclusion that the ten crowns were in the cane ; he replied 
that, observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to 
his opponent while he was taking the oath, and swore that he 
had really and truly given him the crowns, and how as soon 
as he had done swearing he asked for the stick again, it came 
into his head that the sum demanded must be inside it ; and 
from this he said it might be seen that God sometimes guides 
those who govern in their judgments, even though they may 
be fools ; besides he had heard the curate himself mention just 
such another case, and he had so good a memory, that if it 
was not that he forgot everything he wished to remember, 
there would not be such a memory in all the island. To con- 
clude, the old men went off, one crestfallen, and the other in 
high contentment, all who were present were astonished, and 
he who was recording the words, deeds, and movements of 
Sancho could not make up his mind whether he was to look 
upon him and set him down as a fool or as a man of sense. ^ 

As soon as this case was disposed of, there came into court 
a woman holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a 
well-to-do cattle dealer, and she came forward making a great 
outcry and exclaiming, Justice, senor governor, justice ! and 
if I don’t get it on earth I ’ll go look for it in heaven. Senor 
governor of my soul, this wicked man caught me in the middle 
of the fields here and used my body as if it was an ill-washed 
rag, and, woe is me ! got from me what I had kept these three- 
and-twenty years and more, defending it against Moors and 
Christians, natives and strangers ; and I always as hard as an 
oak, and keeping myself as pure as a salamander in the fire, 
or wool among the brambles, for this good fellow to come now 
with clean hands to handle me ! ” 

It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean 

* In the Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragine there is a story resem' 
bling this of the two old men. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


311 


hands or not,’^ said Sancho ; and turning to the man he asked 
him what he had to say in answer to the woman^s charge. 

He all in confusion made answer, Sirs, I am a poor pig 
dealer, and this morning I left the village to sell (saving your 
presence) four pigs, and between dues and cribbings they got 
out of me little less than the worth of them. As I was return- 
ing to my village I fell in on the road with this good dame, 
and the devil who makes a coil and a mess out of everything, 
yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but she not contented 
laid hold of me and never let go until she brought me here ; 
she says I forced her, but she lies by the oath I swear or am 
ready to swear j and this is the whole truth and every particle 
of it.^’ 

The governor on this asked him if he had any money in 
silver about him ; he said he had about twenty ducats in a 
leather purse in his bosom. The governor bade him take it 
out and hand it to the complainant ; he obeyed trembling ; the 
woman took it, and making a thousand salaams to all and 
praying to God for the long life and health of the sehor gov- 
ernor who had such regard for distressed orphans and virgins, 
she hurried out of court with the purse grasped in both her 
hands, first looking, however, to see if the money it contained 
was silver. 

As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, 
whose tears were already starting and whose eyes and heart 
were following his purse, Good fellow, go after that woman 
and take the purse from her, by force even, and come back 
with it here ; ” and he did not say it to one who was a fool or 
deaf, for the man was off at once like a fiash of lightning, and 
ran to do as he was bid. 

All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the 
case, and presently both man and woman came back at e’ven 
closer grips than before, she with her petticoat up and the 
purse in the lap of it, and he struggling hard to take it from 
her, but all to no purpose, so stout was the woman’s defence, 
she all the while crying out, Justice from God and the 
world ! see here, senor governor, the shamelessness and bold- 
ness of this villain, who in the middle of the town, in the 
middle of the street, wanted to take from me the purse your 
worship bade him give me.” 

And did he take it ? ” asked the governor. 

Take it ! ” said the woman ; I ’d let my life be taken from 


312 


DON QUIXOTE. 


me sooner than the purse. A pretty child I ’d be ! It an. 
other sort of cat they must throw in my face, and not that 
poor scurvy knave. Pincers and hammers, mallets and chisels 
would not get it out of my grip ; no, nor lions^ claws ; the soul 
from out of my body first ! 

She is right,’^ said the man ; “ I own myself beaten and 
powerless ; I confess I have n’t the strength to take it from 
her ; ” and he let go his hold of her. 

Upon this the governor said to the woman, Let me see 
that purse, my worthy and sturdy friend.” She handed it to 
him at once, and the governor returned it to the man, and said 
to the unforced mistress of force, Sister, if you had shown as 
much, or only half as much, spirit and vigor in defending your 
body as you have shown in defending that purse, the strength 
of Hercules could not have forced you. Be off, and God speed 
you, and bad luck to you, and don’t show your face in all this 
island, or within six leagues of it on any side, under pain of 
two hundred lashes ; be off at once, I say, you shameless, 
cheating shrew.” ^ 

The woman was cowed and went off disconsolately, hanging 
her head ; and the governor said to the man, Honest man, go 
home with your money, and God speed you ; and for the 
future, if you don’t want to lose it, see that you don’t take 
it into your head to yoke with anybody.” The man thanked 
him as clumsily as he could and went his way, and the 
bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new 
governor’s judgments and sentences. 

Next, two men, one apparently a farm-laborer, and the other 
a tailor, for he had a pair of shears in his hand, presented 
themselves before him, and the tailor said, Senor governor, 
this laborer and I come before your worship by reason of this 
honest man coming to my shop yesterday (for saving every- 
body’s presence I ’m a passed tailor, God be thanked), and put- 
ting a piece of cloth into my hands and asking me, < Senor, will 
there be enough in this cloth to make me a cap ? ’ Measuring 
the cloth I said there would. He probably suspected — as I 
supposed, and I supposed right — that I wanted to steal some 
of the cloth, led to think so by his own roguery and the bad 
opinion people have of tailors ; and he told me to see if there 
would be enough for two. I guessed what he would be at, 

^ Cervantes got this story from a very devout work, the Norte de los 
Estados of Francisco de Osuna, Burgos, 1550. 


CHAPTER XLV, 


313 


and I said ^ yes.’ He, still following up liis original unworthy 
notion, went on adding cap after cap, and I ^ yes ’ after ‘ yes,’ 
until we got as far as five. He has just this moment come for 
them ; and I gave them to him, but he won’t pay me for the 
making; on the contrary, he calls upon me to pay him, or else 
return his cloth.” 

Is all this true, brother ? ” said Sancho. 

Yes, senor,” replied the man ; but will your worship make 
him show the five caps he has made me ? ” 

“ With all my heart,” said the tailor ; and drawing his hand 
from under his cloak he showed five caps stuck upon the five 
fingers of it, and said, there are the five caps this good man 
asks for; and by God and upon my conscience I haven’t a 
scrap of cloth left, and I ’ll let the work be examined by the 
inspectors of the trade.” 

All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty 
of the suit ; Sancho set himself to think for a moment, and 
then said, It seems to me that in this case it is not necessary 
to deliver long-winded arguments, but only to give off-hand the 
judgment of an honest man ; and so my decision is that the 
tailor lose the making and the laborer the cloth, and that 
the caps go to the prisoners in the jail, and let there be no 
more about it.” 

If the previous decision about the cattle dealer’s purse ex- 
cited the admiration of the bystanders, this provoked their 
laughter ; ^ however, the governor’s orders were after all exe- 
cuted. All this, having been taken down by his chronicler, 
was at once despatched to the duke, who was looking out for 
it with great eagerness ; and here let us leave the good Sancho ; 
for his master, sorely troubled in mind by Altisidora’s music, 
has pressing claims upon us now. 

* In the original editions the case of the caps is placed first, hut this 
shows that it should come last. 


314 


DON QlfiXOTE. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AXD CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE 

GOT IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA^S 

WOOING. 

We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which 
the music of the enamoured maid Altisidora had given rise to. 
He went to bed with them, and just like fleas they would not 
let him sleep or get a moment’s rest, and the broken stitches 
of his stockings helped them. But as Time is fleet and no 
obstacle can stay his course, he came riding on the hours, and 
morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don Quixote quitted 
the soft down, and, nowise slothful, dressed himself in his 
chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the dis- 
aster to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, 
put on his head a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver 
edging, flung across his shoulder the baldric with his good 
trenchant sword, took up a large rosary that he always carried 
with him, and with great solemnity and precision of gait pro- 
ceeded to the ante-chamber where the duke and duchess were 
already dressed and waiting for him. But as he passed through 
a gallery, Altisidora and the other damsel, her friend, were 
lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him she 
pretended to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and 
began hastily unlacing the bosom of her dress. 

Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, 
know very well what this seizure arises from.” 

“ I know not from what,” replied the friend, for Altisidora 
is the healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never 
heard her complain all the time I have known her. A plague 
of all the kiiights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful ! 
Go away, Senor Don Quixote ; for this poor child will not come 
to herself again so long as- you are here.” 

To which Don Quixote returned, “ Do me the favor, senora, 
to let a lute be placed in my chamber to-night ; and I will 
comfort this poor maiden to the best of my power ; for in 
the early stages of love a prompt disillusion is an approved 
remedy ; ” and with this he retired, so as not to be remarked 
by any who might see him there. 

He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from 


CHAPTER XLVL 


315 


her swoon, said to her companion, The lute must be left, for 
no doubt Don Quixote intends to give us some music j and 
being his it will not bo bad.” 

They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going 
on, and of the lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted 
beyond measure, plotted with the duke and her two damsels 
to play him a trick that should be amusing but harmless ; and 
in high glee they waited for night, which came quickly as the 
day had come ; and as for the day, the duke and duchess spent 
it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.^ 

When eleven o’clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in 
his chamber ; he tried it, opened the window, and perceived 
that some persons were walking in the garden ; and having 
passed his fingers over the frets of the guitar and tuned it as 
well as he could, he spat and cleared his chest, and then with 
a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang the following 
ballad, which he had himself that day composed ; ^ 

Mighty Love the hearts of maidens 
Doth unsettle and perplex, 

And the instrument he uses 
Most of all is idleness. 

Sewing, stitching, any labor, 

Having always work to do, 

To the poison Love instilleth 
Is the antidote most sure. 

And to proper-minded maidens 
Who desire the matron’s name 
Modesty ’s a marriage portion. 

Modesty their highest praise. 

Men of prudence and discretion. 

Courtiers gay and gallant knights, 

With the wanton damsels dally. 

But the modest take to wife. 

* In the original editions five or six lines are inserted here stating that 
the duchess despatched a page with Sancho’s letter to his wife ; but they 
are repeated with some trifling changes in chapter 1., which is obviously 
their proper place, while they come in very awkwardly here. 

* See Note page 303. 


316 


DON QUIXOTE. 


There are passions, transient, fleeting, 

Loves in hostelries declared, 

Sunrise loves, with sunset ended. 

When the guest hath gone his way. 

Love that springs up swift and sudden, 

Here to-day, to-morrow flown. 

Passes, leaves no trace behind it. 

Leaves no image on the soul. 

Painting that is laid on painting 
Maketh no display or show ; 

Where one beauty ‘s in possession 
There no other can take hold. 

Dulcinea del Toboso 

Painted on my heart I wear ; 

Never from its tablets, never. 

Can her image be erased. 

The quality of all in lovers 
Most esteemed is constancy ; 

’T is by this that lovo works wonders. 

This exalts them to the skies. 

Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the 
duke, the duchess, Altisidora, and nearly the whole household 
of the castle were listening, when all of a sudden from a 
gallery above that was exactly over his window they let down 
a cord with more than a hundred bells attached to it, and 
immediately after that discharged a great sack full of cats, 
which also had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such 
was the din of the bells and the squalling of the cats, that 
though the duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke 
they were startled by it, while Don Quixote stood paralyzed 
with fear; and as luck would have it, two or three of the 
cats made their way through the grating of his chamber,^ and 
flying from one side to the other, made it seem as if there was a 

* The reja or grating of a Spanish window usually bulges out somewhat 
at the lower part so as to form a sort of seat for the occupant of the 
chamber. The cats descending on the projecting part were thus enabled 
to make their way into the room. 


CHAPTER XLVL 


317 


legion of devils at large in it. They extinguished the candles 
that were burning in the room, and rushed about seeking some 
way of escape ; the cord with the large bells never ceased 
rising and falling ; and most of the people of the castle, not 
knowing what was really the matter, were at their wits’ end 
with astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feet, and 
drawing his sword, began making passes at the grating, shout- 
ing out, Avaunt, malignant enchanters ! avaunt, ye witch- 
craft-working rabble ! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
against whom your evil machiuations avail not nor have any 
power.” And turning upon the cats that were running about 
the room, he made several cuts at them. They dashed at the 
grating and escaped by it, save one that, finding itself hard 
pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote’s sword, flew at his 
face and held on to his nose tooth and nail, with the pain of 
which he began to shout his loudest. The duke and duchess 
hearing this, and guessing what it was, ran with all haste' to 
his room, and as the poor gentleman was striving with all his 
might to detach the cat from his face, they opened the door 
with a master-key and went in with lights and witnessed the 
unequal combat.^ The duke ran forward to part the com- 
batants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, Let no one take 
him from me ; leave me hand to hand with this demon, 
this wizard, this enchanter ; I will teach him, I myself, who 
Don Quixote of La Mancha is.” The cat, however, never 
minding these threats, snarled and held on; but at last the 
duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window. Don Qui- 
xote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve, and a nose 
not in very good condition, and greatly vexed that they did 
not let him finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting 
with that villain of an enchanter. They sent for some oil of 
John’s wort, and Altisidora herself with her own fair hands 
bandaged all the wounded parts ; and as she did so she said 
to him- in a low voice, All these mishaps have befallen thee, 
hard-hearted knight, for the sin of thy insensibility and obsti- 
nacy ; and God grant thy squire Sancho may forget to whip 
himself, so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may 
never be released from her enchantment, and that thou mayest 
never enjoy her or come to her bed, at least while I who adore 
thee am alive.” 

* This sentence is very awkwardly constructed in the original ; I have 
partly followed Hartzenbusch’s re-arrangement of it. 


318 


DON QUIXOTE, 


To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave 
deep sighs, and then stretched himself on his bed, thanking 
the duke and duchess for their kindness, not because he stood 
in any fear of that bell-ringing rabble of enchanters in cat 
shape, ^ but because he recognized their good intentions in com- 
ing to his rescue. The duke and duchess left him to repose 
and withdrew greatly grieved at the unfortunate result of the 
joke ; as they never thought the adventure would have fallen 
so heavy on Don Quixote or cost him so dear, for it cost him 
five days of confinement to his bed, during which he had 
another adventure, pleasanter than the late one, which his 
chronicler will not relate just now, in order that he may turn 
his attention to Sancho Panza, who was proceeding with great 
diligence and drollery in his government. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO 
PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT. 

The history says that from the justice court they carried 
Sancho to a sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber 
there was a table laid out with royal magnificence. The clar- 
ions sounded as Sancho entered the room, and four pages came 
forward to present him with water for his hands, which Sancho 
received with great dignity. The music ceased, and Sancho 
seated himself at the head of the table, for there was only that 
seat placed, and no more than the one cover laid. A person- 
age, who it appeared afterwards was a physician, placed him- 
self standing by his side with a whalebone wand in his hand. 
They then lifted up a fine white cloth covering fruit and a 
great variety of dishes of different sorts ; one who looked like 
a student said grace, and a page put a laced bib on Sancho, 
while another who played the part of head carver placed a 
dish of fruit before him. But hardly had he tasted a mcrsel 
when the man with the wand touched the plate with it, and 
they took it away from before him with the utmost celerity. 
The carver, however, brought him another dish, and Sancho 

* Equella canalla gatesca encantadora y cencerruna,, rendered by Shel- 
ton, “Cattish, lov^-belly enchanting crew;’* by Watts, “Cattish and 
hellish enchanter-rabble.” Am, Ed, 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


319 


proceeded to try it ; but before he could get at it, not to say 
taste it, already the wand had touched it and a page had car- 
ried it ofE with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho 
seeing this was puzzled, and looking from one to another asked 
if this dinner was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery trick. 

To this he with the wand replied, “ It is not to be eaten, sehor 
governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands 
where there are governors. I, sen or, am a physician, and I am 
paid a salary in this island to serve its governors as such, and I 
have a much greater regard for their health than for my own, 
studying day and night making myself acquainted with the gov- 
ernor’s constitution, in order to be able to cure him when he 
falls sick. The chief thing I have to do is to attend at his din- 
ners and suppers and allow him to eat what appears to me to be 
tit for him and keep from him what I think’ will do him harm 
and be injurious to his stomach ; and therefore I ordered that 
plate of fruit to be removed as being too moist, and that other 
dish I ordered to be removed as being too hot and containing 
many spices that stimulate thirst ; for he who drinks much kills 
and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists.” 

^‘Well then,” said Sancho, that dish of roast partridges 
there that seems so savory will not do me any harm.” 

To this the physician replied, Of those my lord the gov- 
ernor shall not eat so long as I live.” 

Why so ? ” said Sancho. 

“ Because,” replied the doctor, our master Hippocrates, the 
polestar and beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms 
omnis saturatio mala, jperdicis autem pessima, which means ^all 
repletion is bad, but that of partridge is the worst of all.’ ” 

“ In that case,” said Sancho, let sehor doctor see among 
the dishes that are on the table what will do me most good 
and least harm, and let me eat it, without tapping it with his 
stick ; for by the life of the governor, and so may God suffer 
me to enjoy it, but I ’m dying of hunger ; and in spite of the 
doctor and all he may say, to deny me food is the way to take 
my life instead of prolonging it.” 

Your worship is right, sehor governor,” said the physi- 
cian ; and therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat 
of those stewed rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of 
food ; * if that veal were not roasted and served with pickles, 
you might try it ; but it is out of the question.” 

* Peliagudo, furry, means also dangerous, in popular parlance. 


320 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That big dish that is smoking farther off,” said Sancho, 
** seems to me to be an olla podrida,^ and out of the diversity 
of things in such ollas, I can’t fail to light upon something 
tasty and good for me.” 

said the doctor ; far from us be any such base 
thought ! There is nothing in the world less nourishing than 
an olla podrida ; to canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants’ 
weddings with your ollas podridas, but let us have none of 
them on the tables of governors, where everything that is pres- 
ent should be delicate and refined ; and the reason is, that 
always, everywhere and by everybody, simple medicines are 
more esteemed than compound ones, for we cannot go wrong 
in those that are simple, while in the compound we may, by 
merely altering the quantity of the things composing them. 
But what I am o*f opinion the governor should eat now in 
order to preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of 
wafer cakes and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, 
which will settle his stomach and help his digestion.” 

Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and 
surveyed the doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him 
what his name was and where he had studied. 

He replied, ^^My name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro 
Eecio de Aguero, I am a native of a place called Tirteafuera 
which lies between Caracuel and Almodovar del Campo, on the 
right-hand side, and I have the degree of doctor from the uni- 
versity of Osuna.” 

To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned. 

Then let Doctor Pedro Kecio de Mal-aguero, native of Tirtea- 
fuera,^ a place that ’s on the right-hand side as we go from 
Caracuel to Almodovar del Campo, graduate of Osuna, get out 
of my presence at once ; or I swear by the sun I ’ll take a 
cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with him, I ’ll not 
leave a doctor in the whole island ; at least of those I know to 
be ignorant ; for as to learned, wise, sensible physicians, them 
I will reverence and honor as divine persons. Once more I 
say let Pedro Kecio get out of this or I ’ll take this chair I am 
sitting on and break it over his head. And if they call me to 

* Olla podrida (properly rotten) , a more savory olla than the ordinary 
pot-au-feui containing pigs’ feet, sausages, and a variety of other ingre- 
dients. 

* Redo means obstinate, aguero means omen or augury, mal-aguero^ 
evil omen. Tirteafuera (literally " take thyself off ”) is a village of La 
Mancha situated just as the doctor describes. ( V. map.) 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


321 


account for it, I ^11 clear myself by saying I served God in kill- 
ing a bad doctor — a general executioner. And now give me 
something to eat, or else take your government ; for a trade 
that does not feed its master is not worth two beans.’’ ^ 

The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such 
a passion, and he would have made a Tirteafuera out of the 
room but that the same instant a posthorn sounded in the 
street; and the carver putting his head out of the window 
turned round and said, “ It ’s a courier from my lord the duke, 
no doubt with some despatch of importance.” 

The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a 
paper from his bosom, placed it in the governor’s hands. 
Sancho handed it to the majordomo and bade him read the 
superscription, which ran thus : 

To Don Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria, into 
his own hands or those of his secretary. 

Sancho when he heard this said, Which of you is my secre- 
tary ? ” I am, senor,” said one of those present, for I can 
read and write, and am a Biscayan.” With that addition,” 
said Sancho, you might be secretary to the emperor himself ; ^ 
open this paper and see what it says.” The new-born secre- 
tary obeyed, and having read the contents said the matter was 
one to be discussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber 
to be cleared, the majordomo and the carver only remaining; 
so the doctor and the others withdrew, and then the secretary 
read the letter, which was as follows : 

“ It has come to my knowledge, Senor Don Sancho Panza, that 
certain enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious 
attack upon it some night, I know not when. It behooves you to be 
on the alert and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also 
know by trustworthy spies that four persons have entered the town 
in disguise in order to take your life, because they stand in dread of 
your great capacity; keep" your eyes open and take heed who 
approaches you to address you, and eat nothing that is presented to 
you. I will take care to send you aid if you find yourself in diffi- 
culty, but in all things you will act as may be expected of your 
judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of August, at four in the 
morning. 

“ Your friend, 

“ The Duke.” 

* Prov. 157. 

* Biscayans mustered strong in the royal service in the reigns of 
Charles V. and Philip II. 

VOL. II. — 21 


322 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Sanclio was astonished, and those who stood by made believe 
to be so too, and turning to the majordomo he said to him, 
What we have got to do first, and it must be done at once, 
is to put Doctor Recio in the lock-up ; for if any one wants to 
kill me it is he, and by a slow death and the worst of all, 
which is hunger.” 

Likewise,” said the carver, it is my opinion your worship 
should not eat anything that is on this table, for the whole 
was a present from some nuns ; and as they say, ‘ behind the 
cross there ’s the devil.’ ” ^ 

“ I don’t deny it,” said Sancho ; so for the present give me 
a piece of bread and four pound or so of grapes ; no poison can 
come in them ; for the fact is I can’t go on without eating ; 
and if we are to be prepared for these battles that are threat- 
ening us we must be well provisioned ; for it is the tripes that 
carry the heart and not the heart the tripes.^ And you, secre- 
tary, answer my lord the duke and tell him that all his com- 
mands shall be obeyed to the letter, as he directs ; and say 
from me to my lady the duchess that I kiss her hands, and 
that I beg of her not to forget to send my letter and bundle to 
my wife Teresa Panza by a messenger ; and I will take it as a 
great favor and will not fail to serve her in all that may lie 
within my power ; and as you are about it you may enclose a 
kiss of the hand to my master Don Quixote that he may see I 
am grateful bread ; and as a good secretary and a good Bis- 
cayan you may add whatever you like, and whatever will come 
111 best ; and now take away this cloth and give me something 
to eat, and I’ll be ready to meet all the spies and assassins 
and enchanters that may come against me or my island.” 

At this instant a page entered saying, Here is a farmer on 
business, who wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of 
great importance, he says.” 

It ’s very odd,” said Sancho, the ways of these men on 
business ; is it possible they can be such fools as not to see that 
an hour like this is no hour for coming on business ? W e who 
govern and we who are judges — are we not men of flesh and 
blood, are we not to be allowed the time required for taking 
rest, unless they ’d have us made of marble ? By God and on 
my conscience, if the government remains in my hands (which 
I have a notion it won’t), I ’ll bring more than one man on 
business to order. However, tell this good man to come in ; 

*Prov. 75. 2 Prov. 232. 



SAY ON, BROTHER.” SAID SANCHO 











CHAPTER XLVII. 


323 


but take care first of all tbat he is not some spy or one of my 
assassins/’ 

^^No, my lord,” said the page, <^for he looks like a simple 
fellow, and either I know very little or he is as good as good 
bread.” 

There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the majordomo, 
for we are all here.” 

Would it be possible, carver,” said Sancho, ^^now that 
Doctor Pedro Recio is not here, to let me eat something solid 
and substantial, if it were even a piece of bread and an 
onion ? ” 

To-night at supper,” said the carver, the short-comings of 
the dinner shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully 
satisfied and contented.” 

God grant it,” said Sancho. 

The farmer now came in, a well-favored man that one might 
see a thousand leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. 
The first thing he said was, Which is the senor governor 
here ? ” 

Which should it be,” said the secretary, but he who is 
seated in the chair ? ” 

“ Then I humble myself before him,” said the farmer ; and 
going on his knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho 
refused it, and bade him stand up and say what he wanted. 
The farmer obeyed, and then said, I am a farmer, senor, a 
native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues from Ciudad Real.” 

“ Another Tirteafuera ! ” said Sancho ; say on, brother ; I 
know Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it ’s not very far 
from my own town.” 

The case is this, senor,” continued the farmer, that by 
God’s mercy I am married with the leave and license of the 
holy Roman Catholic Church ; I have two sons, students, and 
the younger is studying to become bachelor, and the elder to 
be licentiate ; I am a widower, for my wife died, or more 
properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my hands, giving 
her a purge when she was with child ; and if it had pleased 
God that the child had been born, and was a boy, I would 
have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his 
brothers the bachelor and the licentiate.” 

So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, 
you would not now be a widower,” said Sancho. 

No, senor, certainly not,” said the farmer. 


324 


DON QUIXOTE, 


u^YeVe got that much settled,” said Sancho; ^^get on, 
brother, for it ’s more bed-time than business-time.” 

^^Well then,” said the farmer, this son of mine who is 
going to be a bachelor fell in love in the said town with a 
damsel called Clara Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a 
very rich farmer, and this name of Perlerines does not come to 
them by ancestry or descent, but because all the family are 
paralytics,^ and for a better name they call them Perlerines 
though to tell the truth the damsel is as fair as an Oriental 
pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you look at her on the 
right side ; on the left not so much, for on that side she wants 
an eye that she lost by small-pox ; and though her face is 
thickly and deeply pitted, those who love her say they are not 
pits that are there, but the graves where the hearts of her 
lovers are buried. She is so cleanly that not to soil her face 
she carries her nose turned up, as they say, so that one would 
fancy it was running away from her mouth ; and with all this 
she looks extremely well, for she has a wide mouth ; and but 
for wanting ten or a dozen teeth and grinders she might com- 
pare and compete with the comeliest. Of her lips I say 
nothing, for they are so fine and thin that, if lips might be 
reeled, one might make a skein of them ; but being of a differ- 
ent color from ordinary lips they are wonderful, for they are 
mottled, blue, green, and purple — let my lord the governor 
pardon me for painting so minutely the charms of her who 
some time or other will be my daughter ; for I love her, and I 
don’t find her amiss.” 

Paint what you’ will,” said Sancho ; I enjoy your paint- 
ing, and if I had dined there could be no dessert more to my 
taste than your portrait.” 

That I have still to furnish,” said the farmer ; * “ but a 
time may come when we may be able if we are not now ; and 
I can tell you, senor, if I could paint her gracefulness and her 
tall figure, it would astonish you ; but that is impossible 
because she is bent double with her knees up to her mouth ; 
but for all that it is easy to see that if she could stand up she ’d 
knock her head against the ceiling ; and she would have given 
her hand to my bachelor ere this, only that she can’t stretch it 
out, for it ’s contracted ; but still one can see its elegance and 
fine make by its long furrowed nails.” 

* Perlesia^ paralysis. 

* This is Professor Juan Calderon’s explanation ; but the passage is 
rather obscure. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


325 


That will do, brother,’’ said Sancho ; consider you have 
painted her from head to foot ; what is it you want now ? 
Come to the point without all this beating about the bush, and 
all these scraps and additions.” 

I want your worship, senor,” said the farmer, to do me 
the favor of giving me a letter of recommendation to the girl’s 
father, begging him to be so good as to let this marriage take 
place, as we are not ill-matched either in the gifts of fortune 
or of nature ; for to tell the truth, senor governor, my son is 
possessed of a devil, and there is not a day but the evil spirits 
torment him three or four times ; and from having once fallen 
into the fire, he has his face puckered up like a piece of parch- 
ment, and his eyes watery and always running ; but he has 
the disposition of an angel, and if it was not for belaboring 
and pummelling himself he ’d be a saint.” 

Is there anything else you want, good man ? ” said 
Sancho. 

There ’s another thing I ’d like,” said the farmer, but I ’m 
afraid to mention it ; however, out it must ; for after all I 
can’t let it be rotting in my breast, come what may. I mean, 
senor, that I ’d like your worship to give me three hundred or 
six hundred ducats as a help to my bachelor’s portion, to help 
him in setting up house, I mean ; for they must, in short, live 
by themselves, without being subject to the interferences of 
their fathers-in-law.” 

Just see if there ’s anything else you ’d like ? said Sancho, 
and don’t hold back from mentioning it out of bashfulness or 
modesty.” 

“ No, indeed there is not,” said the farmer. 

The moment he said this the governor started to his feet, 
and seizing the chair he had been sitting on exclaimed, “ By 
all that ’s good you ill-bred, boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don’t 
get out of this at once and hide yourself from my sight, I ’ll 
lay your head open with this chair. You whoreson rascal, you 
devil’s own painter, and is it at this hour you come to ask me 
for six hundred ducats ! How should I have them, you stink- 
ing brute ? And why should I give them to you if I had them, 
you knave and blockhead ? What have I to do with Miguel- 
turra or the whole family of the Perlerines ? Get out I say, 
or by the life of my lord the duke I’ll do as I said. You ’re 
not from Miguelturra, but some knave sent here from hell to 
tempt me. Why, you villain, I have not yet had the govern- 


326 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ment half a day, and you want me to have six hundred ducats 
already ! ” 

The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the room, 
which he did with his head down, and to all appearance in 
terror lest the governor should carry his threats into effect, for 
the rogue knew very well how to play his part. But let us 
leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all ; and 
let us return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face band- 
aged and doctored after the cat wounds, of which he was not 
cured for eight days ; and on one of these there befell him 
what Cid Hamet promises to relate with that exactitude and 
truth with which he is wont to set forth everything connected 
with this great history, however minute it may be. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE 

duchess’s duenna, together with other occurrences 

WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE. 

Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded 
Don Quixote, with his face bandaged and marked, not by the 
hand of God, but by the claws of a cat, mishaps incidental to 
knight-errantry. Six days he remained without appearing in 
public, and one night as he lay awake thinking of his misfort- 
unes and of Altisidora’s pursuit of him, he perceived that 
some one was opening the door of his room with a key, and he 
at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was com- 
ing to make an assault upon his chastity and put him in dan- 
ger of failing in the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del 
Toboso. No,” said he, firmly persuaded of the truth of his 
idea (and he said it loud enough to be heard), the greatest 
beauty upon earth shall not avail to make me renounce my 
adoration of her whom I bear stamped and graved in the core 
of my heart and the secret depths of my bowels ; be thou, 
lady mine, transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into 
a nymph of golden Tagus weaving a web of silk and gold, 
let Merlin or Montesinos hold thee captive where they will ; 
where’er thou art, thou art mine, and where’er I am, I must be 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


327 


thine.’’ The very instant he had uttered these words, the 
door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped from head to 
foot in a yellow satin coverlet, with a cap on his head, and his 
face and his mustaches tied up, his face because of the 
scratches, and his mustaches to keep them from drooping and 
falling down, and in this trim he looked the most extraordinary 
scarecrow that could be conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on 
the door, and just as he was expecting to see the love-smitten 
and unhappy Altisidora make her appearance, he saw coming 
in a most venerable duenna, in a long white-bordered veil that 
covered and enveloped her from head to foot. Between the 
fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted candle, while 
with her right she shaded it to keep the light from her eyes, 
which were covered by spectacles of great size, and she ad- 
vanced with noiseless steps, treading very softly. 

Hon Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watch-tower, and 
observing her costume and noting her silence, he concluded 
that it must be some witch or sorceress that was coming in such 
a guise to work him some mischief, and he began crossing him- 
self at a great rate. The spectre still advanced, and on reach- 
ing the middle of the room, looked up and saw the energy with 
which Hon Quixote was crossing himself ; and if he was scared 
by seeing such a figure as hers, she was terrified at the sight of 
his ; for the moment she saw his tall yellow form with the cov- 
erlet and the bandages that disfigured him, she gave a loud 
scream, and exclaiming, Jesus ! what ’s this I see ? ” let fall 
the candle in her fright, and then finding herself in the dark, 
turned about to make off, but stumbling on her skirts in her 
consternation, she measured her length with a mighty fall. 

Hon Quixote in his trepidation began saying, I conjure 
thee, phantom, or whatever thou art, tell me what thou art 
and what thou wouldst with me. If thou art a soul in torment, 
say so, and all that my powers can do I will do for thee ; for I 
am a Catholic Christian and love to do good to all the world, 
and to this end I have embraced the order of knight-errantry 
to which I belong, the provii^ce of which extends to doing 
good even to souls in purgatory.” 

The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjured, by 
her own fear guessed Hon Quixote’s, and in a low plaintive 
voice answered, ‘‘ Senor Hon Quixote — if so be you are indeed 
Hon Quixote — I am no phantom or spectre or soul in purga- 
tory, as you seem to think, but Hona Kodriguez, duenna of 


328 


DON QUIXOTE. 


honor to my lady the duchess, and I come to you with one of 
those grievances your worship is wont to redress.” 

Tell me, Sehora Dona Eodriguez,” said Don Quixote, “ do 
you perchance come to transact any go-between business ? Be- 
cause I must tell you I am not available for anybody’s purpose, 
thanks to the peerless beauty of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso. 
In short, Senora Dona Kodriguez, if you will leave out and put 
aside all love messages, you may go and light your candle and 
come back, and we will discuss all the commands you have for 
me and whatever you wish, saving only, as I said, all seductive 
communications,” 

“ I carry nobody’s messages, senor,” said the duenna ; “ little 
you know me. Nay, I ’m not far enough advanced in years to 
take to any such childish tricks. God be praised I have a soul 
in my body still, and all my teeth and grinders in my mouth, 
except one or two that the colds, so common in this Aragon 
country, have robbed me of. But wait a little, while I go and 
light my candle, and I will return immediately and lay my 
sorrows before you as before one who relieves those of all the 
world ; ” and without staying for an answer she quitted the 
room and left Don Quixote tranquilly meditating while he 
waited for her. A thousand thoughts at once suggested them- 
selves to him on the subject of this new adventure, and it 
struck him as being ill done and worse advised in him to 
expose himself to the danger of breaking his plighted faith to 
his lady ; and said he to himself, Who knows but that the 
devil, being wily and cunning, may be trying now to entrap me 
with a duenna, having failed with empresses, queens, duch- 
esses, marchionesses, and countesses ? Many a time have I 
heard it said by many a man of sense that he will sooner offer 
you a flat-nosed wench than a Boman-nosed one ; and who 
knows but this privacy, this opportunity, this silence, may 
awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me in these my latter 
years to fall where 1 have never tripped ? In cases of this 
sort it is better to flee than to await the battle. But I must 
be out of my senses to think aud utter such nonsense ; for it is 
impossible that a long, white-hooded, spectacled duenna could 
stir up or excite a wanton thought in the most graceless bosom 
in the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has fair flesh ? 
Is there a duenna in the world that escapes being ill-tempered, 
wrinkled, and prudish ? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew, un- 
delightful to all mankind. Oh, but that lady did well who, 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


329 


they say, had at the end of her reception room a couple of fig- 
ures of duennas with spectacles and lace-cushions, as if at work, 
and those statues served quite as well to give an air of pro- 
priety to the room as if they had been real duennas.’^ 

So saying he leaped off. the bed, intending to close the door 
and not allow Senora Rodriguez to enter ; but as he went to 
shut it Senora Rodriguez returned with a wax candle lighted, 
and having a closer view of Don Quixote, with the coverlet 
round him, and his bandages and night-cap, she was alarmed 
afresh, and retreating a couple of paces, exclaimed, “Am 
I safe, sir knight? for I don’t look upon it as a sign of 
very great virtue that your worship should have got up out 
of bed.” 

“ I may well ask the same, senora,” said Don Quixote ; “ and 
I do ask whether I shall be safe from being assailed and 
forced ? ” 

“ Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, 
sir knight ? ” said the duenna. 

“ Of you and against you I ask it,” said Don Quixote ; “ for 
I am not marble, nor are you brass, nor is it now ten o’clock 
in the morning, but midnight, or a trifle past it I fancy, and 
we are in a room more secluded and retired than the cave 
could have been where the treacherous and daring iEneas 
enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido. But give me your hand, 
senora ; I require no better protection than my own continence, 
and my own sense of propriety ; as well as that which is in- 
spired by that venerable head-dress ; ” and so saying he kissed 
her right hand and took it in his own, she yielding it to him 
with equal ceremoniousness. And here Cid Hamet inserts a 
parenthesis in which he says that to have seen the pair march- 
ing from the door to the bed, linked hand in hand in this way, 
he would have given the best of the two tunics he had. 

Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Dona Rodriguez took 
her seat on a chair at some little distance from his couch, with- 
out taking off her spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don 
Quixote wrapped the bedclothes round him and covered himself 
up completely, leaving nothing but his face visible, and as soon 
as they had both regained their composure he broke silence, 
saying, “ Kow, Senora Dona Rodriguez, you may unbosom 
yourself and out with everything you have in your sorrowful 
heart and afflicted bowels ; and by me you shall be listened to 
with chaste ears, and aided by compassionate exertions.” 


330 


DON QUIXOTE. 


<< I believe it/’ replied the duenna ; from your worship’s 
gentle and winning presence ; only such a Christian answer 
could be expected. The fact is, then, Senor Don Quixote, that 
though you see me seated in this chair, here in the middle of 
the kingdom of Aragon, and in the attire of a despised outcast 
duenna, I am from the Asturias of Oviedo,^ and of a family 
with which many of the best of the province are connected by 
blood ; but my untoward fate and the improvidence of my 
parents, who, I know not how, were unseasonably reduced to 
poverty, brought me to the court of Madrid, where as a pro- 
vision and to avoid greater misfortunes, my parents placed me 
as seamstress in the service of a lady of quality, and I would 
have you know that for hemming and sewing I have never 
been surpassed by any all my life. My parents left me in 
service and returned to their own country, and a few years 
later went, no doubt, to heaven, for they were excellent good 
Catholic Christians. I was left an orphan with nothing but 
the miserable wages and trifling presents that are given to 
servants of my sort in palaces ; but about this time, without 
any encouragement on my part, one of the esquires of the 
household fell in love with me, a man somewhat advanced in 
years, full-bearded and personable, and above all as good a 
gentleman as the king himself, for he came of a mountain 
stock.^ We did not carry on our loves with such secrecy but 
that they came to the knowledge of my lady, and she, not to 
have any fuss about it, had us married with the full sanction 
of the holy mother Roman Catholic Church, of which marriage 
a daughter was born to put an end to my good fortune, if I had 
any; not that I died in childbirth, for I passed through it 
safely and in due season, but because shortly afterward my 
husband died of a certain shock he received, and had I time to 
tell you of it I know your worship would be surprised ; ” and 
here she began to weep bitterly and said, Pardon me, Senor 
Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for every time 
I think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with tears. 
God bless me, with what an air of dignity he used to carry my 
lady behind him on a stout mule as black as jet ! for in those days 

* The distinction was necessary, as what is now the province of San- 
tander was then called the Asturias of Santander. 

* That is from the " Montana,” the mountain region to the north of 
Castile and Leon, which was the stronghold of the Spaniards in the earlier 
days of the great national struggle. Lope and Quevedo, who were also 
of the mountain stock, use much the same language. 


CHAPTER XL VI 11. 


331 


they did not use coaches or chairs, as they say they do now, 
and ladies rode behind their squires. This much at least I 
cannot help telling you, that you may observe the good breed- 
ing and punctiliousness of my worthy husband. As he was 
turning into the Calle de Santiago in Madrid, which is rather 
narrow, one of the alcaldes of the Court, with two alguacils 
before him, was coming out of it, and as soon as my good 
squire saw him he wheeled his mule about and made as if he 
would turn and accompany him. My lady, who was riding 
behind him, said to him in a low voice, ‘ What are you about, 
you sneak, don’t you see that I am here ? ’ The alcalde like a 
polite man pulled up his horse and said to him, ^Proceed, 
senor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany my lady 
Dona Casilda ’ — for that was my mistress’s name. Still my 
husband, cap in hand, persisted in trying to accompany the 
alcalde, and seeing this my lady, filled with rage and vexation, 
pulled out a big pin, or, I rather think, a bodkin, out of her 
needle-case and drove it into his back with such force that my 
husband gave a loud yell, and writhing fell to the ground with 
his lady. Her two lackeys ran to raise her up, and the alcalde 
and the alguacils did the same ; the Guadalajara gate was all 
in commotion — I mean the idlers congregated there ; ^ my 
mistress came back on foot, and my husband hurried away to 
a barber’s shop protesting that he was run right through the 
guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised abroad to such 
an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the street ; and 
on this account, and because he was somewhat short-sighted, 
my lady dismissed him ; and it was chagrin at this I am con- 
vinced beyond a doubt that brought on his death. I was left 
a helpless widow, with a daughter on my hands growing up in 
beauty like the sea-foam ; at length, however, as I had the 
character of being an excellent needlewoman, my lady the 
duchess, then lately married to my lord the duke, offered to 
take me with her to this kingdom of Aragon, and my daughter 
also, and here as time went by my daughter grew up and with 
her all the graces in the world ; she sings like a lark, dances 
quick as thought, foots it like a gypsy, reads and writes like a 
schoolmaster, and does sums like a miser ; of her neatness I 
say nothing, for the running water is not purer, and her age is 
now, if my memory serves me, sixteen years five months and 

* The Guadalajara gate was then very much what the Puerta del Sol is 
to modern Madrid. 


332 


DON QUIXOTE. 


three days, one more or less. To come to the point, the son of 
a very rich farmer living in a village of my lord the duke’s, not 
very far from here, fell in love with this girl of mine ; and in 
short, how I know not, they came together, and under the 
promise of marrying her he made a fool of my daughter, and 
will not keep his word. And though my lord the duke is 
aware of it (for I have complained to him, not once but many 
and many a time, and entreated him to order the farmer to 
marry my daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will scarcely listen 
to me ; the reason being that as the deceiver’s father is so rich, 
and lends him money, and is constantly going security for his 
debts, he does not like to offend or annoy him in any way. 
Now, senor, I want your worship to take it upon yourself to 
redress this wrong either by entreaty or by arms ; for by what 
all the world says you came into it to redress grievances and 
right wrongs and help the unfortunate. Let your worship put 
before you the unprotected condition of my daughter, her 
grace, her youth, and all the perfections I have said she pos- 
sesses ; and before God and on my conscience, out of all the 
damsels my lady has, there is not one that comes up to the 
sole of her shoe, and the one they call Altisidora, and looked 
upon as the boldest and gayest of them, put in comparison 
with my daughter, does not come within two leagues of her. 
For I would have you know, senor, all is not gold that glitters,^ 
and that same little Altisidora has more forwardness than good 
looks, and more impudence than modesty ; besides being not 
very sound, for she has such a disagreeable breath that one 
cannot bear to be near her for a moment ; and even my lady 
the duchess — but I ’ll hold my tongue, for they say that walls 
have ears.” 

<^For Heaven’s sake. Dona Kodriguez, what ails my lady 
the duchess ? ” asked Don Quixote. 

Adjured in that way,” replied the duenna, I cannot help 
answering the question and telling the whole truth. Senor 
Don Quixote, have you observed the comeliness of my lady the 
duchess, that smooth complexion of hers like a burnished 
polished sword, those two cheeks of milk and carmine, that 
gay lively step with which she treads or rather seems to spurn 
the earth, so that one would fancy she went radiating health 
wherever she passed? Well then, let me tell you she may 
thank, first of all God, for this, and next, two issues that she 
* ProT. 161. 


333 


chapter xlviii. 

has, one in each leg, by which all the evil humors, of which the 
doctors say she is full, are discharged/’ 

“ Blessed Virgin ! ” exclaimed Don Quixote ; and is it pos- 
sible that my lady the duchess has drains of that sort ? I 
would not have believed it if the bare-foot friars had told it 
me ; but as the lady Dona Eodriguez says so, it must be so. 
But surely such issues, and in such places, do not discharge 
humors, but liquid amber. . Verily, I do believe now that this 
practice of opening issues is a very important matter for the 
health.” 1 

Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door 
flew open with a loud bang, and with the start the noise gave 
her Dona Eodriguez let the candle fall from her hand, and the 
room was left as dark as a wolf’s mouth, as the saying is. 
Suddenly the poor duenna felt two hands seize her by the 
throat, so tightly that she could not croak, while some one else, 
without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted up her petticoats, 
and with what seemed to be a slipper began to lay on so heartily 
that any one would have felt pity for her ; but although Don 
Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bed, but lay quiet and 
silent, nay apprehensive that his turn for a drubbing might be 
coming. Nor was the apprehension an idle one ; for leaving 
the duenna (who did not dare to cry out) well basted, the 
silent executioners fell upon Don Quixote, and stripping him 
of the sheet and the coverlet, they pinched him so fast and so 
hard that he was driven to defend himself with his fists, and 
all this in marvellous silence. The battle lasted nearly half 
an hour, and then the phantoms fled ; Dona Eodriguez gathered 
up her skirts, and bemoaning her fate went out without saying 
a word to Don Quixote, and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and 
dejected, remained alone, and there we will leave him, wonder- 
ing who could have been the perverse enchanter who had re- 
duced him to such a state ; but that shall be told in due season, 
for Sancho claims our attention, and the methodical arrange- 
ment of the story demands it. 

’ Issues were, in fact, very much relied upon as preservatives of health 
in Spain, just as periodical blood-letting was in England somewhat later. 


334 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTEE XLIX. 

OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND 
OF HIS ISLAND. 

We left the great governor angered and irritated by that 
portrait-painting rogue of a farmer who, instructed by the 
majordomo, as the majordomo was by the duke, tried to prac- 
tise upon him ; he however, fool, boor, and clown as he was, 
held his own against them all, saying to those round him and 
to Doctor Pedro Eecio, who as soon as the private business of 
the duke’s letter was disposed of had returned to the room. 
Now I see plainly enough that judges and governors ought 
to be and must be made of brass not to feel the importunities of 
the applicants that at all times and all seasons insist on being 
heard, and having their business despatched, and their own 
affairs and no others attended to, come what may ; and if the 
poor judge does not hear them and settle the matter — either 
because he cannot or because that is not the time set apart for 
hearing them — forthwith they abuse him, and run him down, 
and gnaw at his bones, and even pick holes in his pedigree. You 
silly, stupid applicant, don’t be in a hurry ; wait for the proper 
time and season for doing business ; don’t come at dinner-hour, 
or at bedtime; for judges are only flesh and blood, and must 
give to Nature what she naturally demands of them ; all except 
myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to 
Senor Doctor Pedro Eecio Tirteafuera here, who would have 
me die of hunger, and declares that death to be life ; and the 
same sort of life may God give him and all his kind — I mean 
the bad doctors ; for the good ones deserve palms and laurels.” 

All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him 
speak so elegantly, and did not know what to attribute it to 
unless it were that office and grave responsibility either smarten 
or stupefy men’s wits. At last Doctor Pedro Eecio Aguero of 
Tirteafuera promised to let him have supper that night, though 
it might be in contravention of all the aphorisms of Hippoc- 
rates. With this the governor was satisfied and looked for- 
ward to the approach of night and supper-time with great 
anxiety ; and though time, to his mind, stood still and made no 
progress, nevertheless the hour he so longed for came, and they 
gave him a beef salad with onions and some boiled calves’ feet 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


335 


rather far gone. At this he fell to with greater relish than if 
they had given him francolins from Milan, pheasants from 
Rome, veal from Sorrento, partridges from Moron, or geese 
from Lavajos, and turning to the doctor at supper he said to 
him, Look here, sehor doctor, for the future don’t trouble 
yourself about giving me dainty things or choice dishes to eat, 
for it will be only taking my stomach off its hinges ; it is ac- 
customed to goat, cow, bacon, hung beef, turnips and onions ; 
and if by any chance it is given these palace dishes, it receives 
them squeamishly, and sometimes with loathing. What the 
head-carver had best do is to serve me with what they call ollas 
podridas (and the rottener they are the better they smell) ; and 
he can put whatever he likes into them, so long as it is good 
to eat, and I ’ll be obliged to him, and will requite him some 
day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either we are or 
we are not ; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, 
for when God sends the dawn, he sends it for all.^ I mean to 
govern this island without giving up a right or taking a bribe ; ’ 
let every one keep his eye open, and look out for the arrow f 
for I can tell them ‘ the devil ’s in Cantillana,’ ^ and if they 
drive me to it they ’ll see something that will astonish them. 
Nay ! make yourself honey and the flies will eat you.” ® 

“ Of a truth, senor governor,” said the carver, your worship 
is in the right of it in everything you have said ; and I prom- 
ise you in the name of all the inhabitants of this island that 
they will serve your worship with all zeal, affection, and good- 
will, for the mild kind of government you have given a sample 
of to begin with, leaves them no ground for doing or thinking 
anything to your worship’s disadvantage.” 

That I believe,” said Sancho ; “ and they would be great 
fools if they did or thought otherwise ; once more I say, see to 
my feeding and my Dapple’s, for that is the great point and 
what is most to the purpose ; and when the hour comes let us 
go the rounds, for it is my intention to purge this island of all 
manner of uncleanness and of all idle good-for-nothing vaga- 
bonds ; for I would have you know, my friends, that lazy 
idlers are the same thing in a State as the drones in a hive, 
that eat up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to 

* Prov. 88. * Prov. 51. ® Prov. 248. 

* Prov. 35. A rather obscure proverb. Cantillana is a village to the 

north-east of Seville. One explanation is that it refers to the doings of 
one of Jofre Tenorio’s captains in suppressing the disturbances in the 
reign of Alfonso XI. * Prov. 139. 


836 


DON QUIXOTE. 


protect the husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman his privi- 
leges, to reward the virtuous, and above all to respect religion 
and honor its ministers. What say you to that, my friends ? Is 
there anything in what I say, or am I talking to no purpose ? 

“ There is so much in what your worship says, senor gov- 
ernor,’’ said the majordomo, that I am tilled with wonder 
when I see a man like your worship, entirely without learning 
(for I believe you have none at all), say such things, and so 
full of sound maxims and sage remarks, very different from 
what was expected of your worship’s intelligence by those who 
sent us or by us who came here. Every day we see something 
new in this world ; jokes become realities, and the jokers find 
the tables turned upon them.” 

Night came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Kecio, 
the governor had supper.^ They then got ready to go the 
rounds, and he started with the majordomo, the secretary, the 
head-carver, the chronicler charged with recording his deeds, 
and alguacils and notaries enough to form a fair-sized squad- 
ron. In the midst marched Sancho with his staff, as fine a 
sight as one could wish to see, and but a few streets of the 
town had been traversed when they heard a noise as of a clash- 
ing of swords. They hastened to the spot, and found that the 
combatants were but two, who seeing the authorities approach- 
ing stood still, and one of them exclaimed, “ Help, in the name 
of God and the king ! Are men to be allowed to rob in the 
middle of this town, and rush out and attack people in the very 
streets ? ” 

Be calm, my good man,” said Sancho, and tell me what 
the cause of this quarrel is ; for I am the governor.” 

Said the other combatant, Senor governor, I will tell you 
in a very few words. Your worship must know that this gen- 
tleman has just now won more than a thousand reals in that 
gambling house opposite, and God knows how. I was there, 
and gave more than one doubtful point in his favor, very much 
against what my conscience told me. He made off with his 
winnings, and when I made sure he was going to give me a 
crown or so at least by way of a present, as it is usual and 
customary to give men of quality of my sort who stand by to 
see fair or foul play, and back up swindles, and prevent 
quarrels, he pocketed his money and left the house. Indig- 
nant at this I followed him, and speaking him fairly and civilly 

^ Cervantes forgets he had given Sancho his supper already. 


CHAPTER XLIX, 


387 


asked him to give me if it were only eight reals, for he knows 
I am an honest man and that I have neither profession nor 
property, for my parents never brought me up to any or left 
me any ; but the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus and 
a greater sharper than Andradilla, would not give me more 
than four reals ; so your worship may see how little shame and 
conscience he has. But by my faith if you had not come up 
I ’d have made him disgorge his winnings, and he ’d have 
learned what the range of the steel-yard was.’’ 

“ What say you to this ? ” asked Sancho. The other replied 
that all his antagonist said. was true, and that he did not choose 
to give him more than four reals because he very often gave 
him money ; and that those who expected presents ought to be 
civil and take what is given them with a cheerful countenance, 
and not make any claim against winners unless they know 
them for certain to be sharpers and their winnings to be un- 
fairly won ; and that there could be no better proof that he 
himself was an honest man than his having refused to give 
anything ; for sharpers always pay tribute to lookers-on who 
know them.” 

This is true, ” said the majordomo ; “ let your worship con- 
sider what is to be done with these men.” 

What is to be done, ” said Sancho, is this ; you, the win- 
ner^ be you good, bad, or indifferent, give this assailant of 
yours a hundred reals at once, and you must disburse thirty 
more for the poor prisoners ; and you who have neither pro- 
fession nor property, and hang about the island in idleness, 
take these hundred reals now, and some time of the day to- 
morrow quit the island under sentence of banishment for ten 
years, and under pain of completing it in another life if you 
violate the sentence, for I ’ll hang you on a gibbet, or at least 
the hangman will by my orders ; not a word from either of you, 
or I ’ll make him feel my hand.” 

The one paid down the money and the other took it, and the 
latter quitted the island, while the other went home ; and then 
the governor said, Either I am not good for much, or I ’ll get 
rid of these gambling houses, for it strikes me they are very 
mischievous.” 

This one at least, ” said one of the notaries, “ your wor- 
ship will not be able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and 
what he loses every year is beyond all comparison more than 
what he makes by the cards. On the minor gambling houses 

VOL. II. — 22 


338 


DON QUIXOTE, 


your worship may exercise your power, and it is they that do 
most harm and shelter the most barefaced practices ; for in the 
houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the notorious sharpers 
dare not attempt to play their tricks ; and as the vice of 
gambling has become common, it is better that men should play 
in houses of repute than in some tradesman’s, where they catch 
an unlucky fellow in the small hours of the morning and skin 
him alive.” 

I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to be said 
on that point, ” said Sancho. 

And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his grasp, 
and said, “ Senor governor, this youth was coming towards us, 
and as soon as he saw the officers of justice he turned about and 
ran like a deer, a sure proof that he must be some evil-doer ; 
I ran after him, and had it not been that he stumbled and fell, 
I should never have caught him.” 

What did you run for, fellow ? ” said Sancho. 

To which the young man replied, Senor, it was to avoid 
answering all the questions officers of justice put.” 

What are you by trade ? ” 
weaver.” 

And what do you weave ? ” 

Lance heads, with your worship’s good leave.” 

You ’re facetious with me ! You plume yourself on being 
a wag ? Very good ; and where were you going just now ? ” 

To take the air, senor.” 

And where does one take the air in this island ? ” 

Where it blows.” 

“ Good ! your answers are very much to the point ; you are 
a smart youth ; but take notice that I am the air, and that 1 
blow upon you a-stern, and send you to jail. Ho there ! lay 
hold of him and take him off ; I ’ll make him sleep there to- 
night without air.” 

“ By God, ” said the young man, ^‘your worship will make 
me sleep in jail just as soon as make me king.” 

Why shan’t I make thee sleep in jail ? ” said Sancho. 

Have I not the power to arrest thee ^nd release thee when- 
ever I like ? ” 

All the power your worship has, ” said the young man, 
“ won’t be able to make me sleep in jail.” 

How ? not able ! ” said Sancho ; take him away at once 
where he ’ll see his mistake with his own eyes, even if the 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


339 


jailer is willing to exert his interested generosity on his behalf ; 
for I ’ll lay a penalty of two thousand ducats on him if he 
allows him to stir a step from the prison.” 

That ’s ridiculous,” said the young man ; the fact is, all 
the men on earth will not make me sleep in prison.” 

Tell me, you devil,” said Sancho, have you got any angel 
that will deliver you, and take off the irons I am going to order 
them to put upon you ? ” 

Now, senor governor,” said the young man in a sprightly 
manner, let us be reasonable and come to the point. Granted 
your worship may order me to be taken to prison, and have irons 
and chains put on me, and to be shut up in a cell, and may lay 
heavy penalties on the jailer if he lets me out, and that he 
obeys your orders ; still, if I don’t choose to sleep, and choose 
to remain awake all night without closing an eye, will your 
worship with all your power be able to make me sleep if I 
don’t choose? ” 

No, truly,” said the secretary, “ and the fellow has made 
his point.” 

So then,” said Sancho, it would be entirely of your own 
choice you would keep from sleeping ; not in opposition to my 
will ? ” 

No, senor,” said the youth, certainly not.” 

Well then, go, and God be with you,” said Sancho ; be 
off home to sleep, and God give you sound sleep, for I don’t 
want to rob you of it ; but for the future, let me advise you 
don’t joke wdth the authorities, because you may come across 
some one who will bring down the joke on your own skull.” 

The young man went his way, and the governor continued 
his round, and shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a 
man in custody, and said, Senor governor, this person, who 
seems to be a man, is not so, but a woman, and not an ill-fa- 
vored one, in man’s clothes.” They raised two or three lanterns 
to her face, and by their light they distinguished the features 
of a woman to all appearance of the age of sixteen or a little 
more, with her hair gathered into a gold and green silk net, 
and fair as a thousand pearls. They scanned her from head 
to foot, and observed that she had on red silk stockings with 
garters of white taffety bordered with gold and pearl ; her 
breeches were of green and gold stuff, and under an open 
jacket or jerkin of the same she wore a doublet of the finest 
white and gold cloth ; her shoes were white and such as men 


340 


DON QUIXOTE. 


wear ; she carried no sword at her belt, but only a richly orna- 
mented dagger, and on her fingers she had several handsome 
rings. In short, the girl seemed fair to look at in the eyes of 
all, and none of those who beheld her knew her, the people of 
the town said they could not imagine who she was, and those 
who were in the secret of the jokes that were to be practised 
upon Sancho were the ones who were most surprised, for this 
incident or discovery had not been arranged by them ; and they 
watched anxiously to see how the affair would end. 

Sancho was fascinated by the girPs beauty, and he asked her 
who she was, where she was going, and what had induced 
her to dress herself in that garb. She with her eyes .fixed on 
the ground answered in modest confusion, I cannot tell 
you, senor, before so many people what it is of such conse- 
quence to me to have kept secret ; one thing I wish to be 
known, that I am no thief or evil-doer, but only an unhappy 
maiden whom the power of jealousy has led to break through 
the respect that is due to modesty.” 

Hearing this the majordomo said to Sancho, Make the 
people stand back, senor governor, that this lady may say what 
she wishes with less embarrassment.” 

Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the 
head-carver, and the secretary fell back. Finding herself then 
in the presence of no more, the damsel went on to say, I am 
the daughter, sirs, of Pedro Perez Mazorca, the wool-farmer of 
this town, who is in the habit of coming very often to my 
father’s house.” 

“ That won’t do, senora,” said the majordomo ; “ for I know 
Pedro Perez very well, and I know he has no child at all, 
either son or daughter ; and besides, though you say he is your 
father, you add then that he comes very often to your father’s 
house.” 

I have already noticed that,” said Sancho. 

I am confused just now, sirs,” said the damsel, “ and I 
don’t know what I am saying ; but the truth is that I am the 
daughter of Diego de la Liana, whom you must all know.” 

Ay, that will do,” said the majordomo ; for I know Diego 
de la Liana, and know that he is a gentleman of position and 
a rich man, and that he has a son and a daughter, and that 
since he was left a widower nobody in all this town can 
speak to having seen his daughter’s face ; for he keeps her so 
closely shut up that he does not give even the sun a chance of 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


341 


seeing her ; and for all that report says she is extremely 
beautiful/’ 

It is true,” said the damsel, and I am that daughter ; 
whether report lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have 
decided by this time, as you have seen me ; and with this she 
began to weep bitterly. 

On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver’s 
ear, and said to him in a low voice, Something serious has no 
doubt happened this poor maiden, that she goes wandering from 
home in such a dress and at such an hour, and one of her rank 
too.” There can be no doubt about it,” returned the carver, 
and moreover her tears confirm your suspicion.” Sancho 
gave her the best comfort he could, and entreated her to tell 
them without any fear what had happened her, as they would 
all earnestly and by every means in their power endeavor to 
relieve her. 

The fact is, sirs,” said she, that my father has kept me 
shut up these ten years, for so long is it since the earth re- 
ceived my mother. Mass is said at home in a sumptuous 
chapel, and all this time I have seen but the sun in the heaven 
by day, and the moon and the stars by night ; nor do I know 
what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or even men, 
except my father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the 
wool-farmer ; whom, because he came frequently to our house, 
I took it into my head to call my father, to avoid naming my 
own. This seclusion and tlie restrictions laid upon my going 
out, were it only to church, have been keeping me unhappy for 
many a day and month past ; I longed to see the world, or at 
least the town where I was born, and it did not seem to me 
that this wish was inconsistent with the respect maidens of 
good quality should have for themselves. When I heard them 
talking of bull-fights taking place, and of javelin games,^ and 
of acting plays, I asked my brother, who is a year younger 
than myself, to tell me what sort of things these were, and 
many more that I had never seen ; he explained them to me 
as well as he could, but the only effect was to kindle in me a 
still stronger desire to see them. At last, to cut short the story 
of my ruin, I begged and entreated my brother — 0 that I 
had never made such an entreaty ” — And once more she 
gave way to a burst of weeping. 

Proceed, senora,” said the majordomo, and finish youi 

* Played by men on horseback with reed javelins and light bucklers. 


342 


DON QUIXOTE, 


story of what has happened to you, for your words and tears 
are keeping us all in suspense.” 

I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed,” 
said the damsel ; for ill-placed desires can only be paid for 
in some such way.” 

The maiden’s beauty had made a deep impression on the 
head-carver’s heart, and he again raised his lantern for another 
look at her, and thought they were not tears she was shedding, 
but seed-pearl or dew of the meadow, nay, he exalted them 
still higher, and made Oriental pearls of them, and fervently 
hoped her misfortune might not be so great a one as her tears 
and sobs seemed to indicate. The governor was losing patience 
at the length of time the girl was taking to tell her story, and 
told her not to keep them waiting any longer ; for it was late, 
and there still remained a good deal of the town to be gone 


over. 


She, with broken sobs and half-suppressed sighs, went on to 
say, My misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I 
entreated my brother to dress me up as a man in a suit of his 
clothes, and take me some night, when our father was asleep, to 
see the whole town ; he^ overcome by my entreaties, consented, 
and dressing me in this suit and himself in clothes of mine 
that fitted him as if made for him (for he has not a hair on his 
chin, and might pass for a very beautiful young girl), to-night, 
about an hour ago, more or less, wj left the house, and guided 
by our youthful and foolish impulse we made the circuit of the 
whole town, and then, as we were about to return home, we 
saw a great troop of people coming, and my brother said to me, 
^ Sister, this must be the round, stir your feet and put wings to 
them, and follow me as fast as you can, lest they recognize us, 
for that would be a bad business for us ; ’ and so saying he 
turned about and began, I cannot say to run but to fly ; in less 
than six paces I fell from fright, and then the officer of justice 
came up and carried me before your worships, where I find 
myself put to shame before all these people as whimsical and 
vicious.” 


“ So then, senora,” said Sancho, no other mishap has be- 
fallen you, nor was it jealousy that made you leave home, as 
you said at the beginning of your story ? ” 

Nothing has happened me,” said she, nor was it jealousy 
that brought me out, but merely a longing to see the world, 
which did not go beyond seeing the streets of this town.” 


CHAPTER XLIX, 


343 


The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custody, 
whom one of them had overtaken as he ran away from his 
sister, now fully confirmed the truth of what the damsel said. 
He had nothing on but a rich petticoat and a short blue damask 
cloak with fine gold lace, and his head was uncovered and 
adorned only with its own hair, which looked like rings of gold, 
so bright and curly was it. The governor, the majordomo, and 
the carver went aside with him, and, unheard by his sister, 
asked him how he came to be in that dress, and he with no less 
shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his 
sister, to the great delight of the enamoured carver ; the gov- 
ernor, however, said to them, “ In truth, young lady and gentle- 
man, this has been a very childish affair, and to explain your 
folly and rashness there was no necessity for all this delay and 
all these tears and sighs ; for if you had said we are so-and-so, 
and we escaped from our father’s house in this way in order to 
ramble about, out of mere curiosity and with no other object, 
there would have been an end of the matter, and none of these 
little sobs and tears and all the rest of it.” 

That is true,” said the damsel, but you see the confusion 
I was in was so great it did not let me behave as I ought.” 

No harm has been done,” said Sancho ; come, we will 
leave you at your father’s house ; perhaps they will not have 
missed you ; and another time don’t be so childish or eager to 
see the world; for a respectable damsel and a broken leg 
should keep at home ; and the woman and the hen by gadding 
about are soon lost ; and she who is eager to see is also eager 
to be seen ; ' I say no more.” 

The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take 
them home, and they directed their steps towards the house, 
which was not far off. On reaching it the youth threw a 
pebble up at a grating, and immediately a woman-servant who 
was waiting for them came down and opened the door to them, 
and they went in, leaving the party marvelling as much at 
their grace and beauty as at the fancy they had for seeing the 
world by night and without quitting the village ; which, how- 
ever, they set down to their youth. 

The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and 
through, and he made up his mind on the spot to demand the 
damsel in marriage of her father on the morrow, making sure 
she would not be refused him as he was a servant of the duke’s • 
*Proys. 148, 150, and 239. 


344 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and even to Sancho ideas and schemes of marrying the youth 
to his daughter Sanchica suggested themselves, and he resolved 
to open the negotiation at the proper season, persuading him- 
self that no husband could be refused to a governor’s daughter. 
And so the night’s round came to an end, and a couple of days 
later the government, whereby all his plans were overthrown 
and swept away, as will be seen farther on. 


CHAPTER L. 

WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECU- 
TIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND PINCHED 
DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO 
CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA’s 
WIFE. 

CiD Hamet, the pains-taking investigator of the minute 
points of this veracious history, says that when Dona Rodri- 
guez left her own room to go to Don Quixote’s, another duenna 
who slept with her observed her, and as all duennas are fond of 
prying, listening, and sniffing, she followed her so silently that 
the good Rodriguez never perceived it; and as soon as the 
duenna saw her enter Don Quixote’s room, not to fail in a 
duenna’s invariable practice of tattling, she hurried off that in- 
stant to report to the duchess how Dona Rodriguez was closeted 
with Don Quixote. The duchess told the duke, and asked him 
to let her and Altisidora go and see what the said duenna 
wanted with Don Quixote. The duke gave them leave, and the 
pair cautiously and quietly crept to the door of the room and 
posted themselves so close to it that they could hear all that 
was said inside. But when the duchess heard how the Rod- 
riguez had made public the Aranjuez of her issues ^ she could 
not restrain herself, nor Altisidora either; and so, filled with 
rage and thirsting for vengeance, they burst into the room and 
tormented Don Quixote and flogged the duenna in the manner 
already described ; for indignities offered to their charms and 
self-esteem mightily provoke the anger of women and make 

* Issues are called fuentes^ “fountains,” and the fountains of Aranjuez 
are as famous in Spain as those of Versailles in France. 


CHAPTER L. 


345 


them eager for revenge. The duchess told the duke what had 
happened, and he was much amused by it ; and she, in pursu- 
ance of her design of making merry and diverting herself with 
Don Quixote, despatched the page who had played the part of 
Dulcinea in the negotiations for her disenchantment (which 
Sancho Panza in the cares of government had forgotten all 
about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her husband’s letter and 
another from herself, and also a great string of fine coral beads 
as a present.^ 

Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick- 
witted ; and eager to serve his lord and lady he set off very 
willingly for Sancho’ s village. Before he entered it he ob- 
served a number of women washing in a brook,^ and asked 
them if they could tell him whether there lived there a woman 
of the name of Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire 
to a knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At the question 
a young girl who was washing stood up and said, Teresa 
Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that 
knight is our master.” 

Well then, miss,” said the page, come and show me where 
your mother is, for I bring her a letter and a present from 
your father.” 

That I will with all my heart, senor,” said the girl, who 
seemed to be about fourteen, more or less; and leaving the 
clothes she was washing to one of her companions, and without 
putting anything on her head or feet, for she was bare-legged 
and had her hair hanging about her, away she skipped in front 
of the page’s horse, saying, Come, your worship, our house is 
at the entrance of the town, and. my mother is there, sorrowful 
enough at not having had any news of my father this ever so 
long.” 

Well,” said the page, I am bringing her such good news 
that she will have reason to thank God for it.” 

And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached 
the town, but before going into the house she called out at the 
door, “ Come out, mother Teresa, come out, come out ; here ’s a 
gentleman with letters and other things from my good father.” 
At these words her mother Teresa Panza came out spinning a 
bundle of flax, in a gray petticoat (so short was it one would 

^’See chapter xlvi., page 315. 

* Argamasilla is almost the only village in La Mancha where such a 
sight could be seen ; an arm of the Guadiana flows past it- 


346 


DON QUIXOTE. 


have fancied they to her shame had cut it short ^), a gray 
bodice of the same stuff, and a smock. She was not very old, 
though plainly past forty, strong, healthy, vigorous, and sun- 
dried ; and seeing her daughter and the page on horseback, she 
exclaimed, What ’s this, child ? What gentleman is this ? ” 
A servant of my lady. Dona Teresa Panza,” replied the 
page ; and suiting the action to the word he flung himself off 
his horse, and with great humility advanced to kneel before 
the lady Teresa, saying, Let me kiss your hand, Senora Dona 
Teresa, as the lawful and only wife of Senor Don Sancho 
Panza, rightful governor of the island of Barataria.’^ 

Ah, senor, get up, don^t do that,’^ said Teresa ; for I ’m 
not a bit of a court lady, but only a poor countrywoman, the 
daughter of a clodcrusher, and the wife of a squire-errant and 
not of any governor at all.’’ 

“ You are,” said the page, “ the most worthy wife of a most 
arch-worthy governor ; and as a proof of what I say accept 
this letter and this present ; ” and at the same time he took out 
of his pocket a string of coral beads with gold clasps, and 
placed it on her neck, and said, “ This letter is from his lord- 
ship the governor, and the other as well as these coral beads 
from my lady the duchess, who sends me to your worship.” 

Teresa stood lost in astonishment, and her daughter just as 
much, and the girl said, May I die but our master Don Qui- 
xote ’s at the bottom of this ; he must have given father the 
government or country he so often promised him.” 

‘‘ That is the truth,” said the page ; ‘‘ for it is through Senor 
Don Quixote that Senor Sancho is now governor of the island 
of Barataria, as will be seen by this letter.” 

“ Will your worship read it to me, noble sir ? ” said Teresa ; 
for though I can spin I can’t read, not a scrap.” 

Nor I either,” said Sanchica; but wait a bit, and I ’ll go 
and fetch some one who can read it, either the curate himself 
or the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and they ’ll come gladly to 
hear any news of my father.” 

“ There is no need to fetch anybody,” said the page ; “ for 
though I can’t spin I can read, and I ’ll read it ; ” and so he 
read it through, but as it has already been gfven it is not 
inserted here ; and then he took out the other one from the 
duchess, which ran as follows : 

line from the old ballad, “ A Calatrava la Vieja.” Docking the 
skirts was a punishment for misconduct in old times. 


CHAPTER L. 


347 


“ Friend Teresa, — Your husband Sancho’s good qualities, of 
heart as well as of head, induced and compelled me to rf quest my 
husband the duke to give him the government of one of his many 
islands. I am told he governs like a gerfalcon, of which I am very 
glad, and my lord the duke, of course, also ; and I am very thankful 
to Heaven that I have not made a mistake in choosing him for that 
same government; for I would have Senora Teresa know that a 
good governor is hard to find in this world, and may God make me 
as good as Sancho’s way of governing. Herewith I send you, my 
dear, a string of coral "beads with gold clasps ; I wish they were 
Oriental pearls ; but ‘ he who gives thee a bone does not wish to see 
thee dead ; ’ ‘ a time will come when we shall become acquainted and 
meet one another, but God knows the future. Commend me to your 
daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me to hold herself in readiness, 
for 1 mean to make a high match for her when she least expects it. 
They tell me there are big acorns in your village; send me a couple 
of dozen or so, and I shall value them greatly as coming from your 
hand ; and write to me at length to assure me of your health and 
well-being; and if there be anything you stand in need of, it is but 
to open your mouth, and that shall be the measure ; and so God keep 
you. 

“From this place. 

“ Your loving friend, 

“The Duchess.” 

Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady ! ’’ said Teresa when 
she heard the letter ; “ that I may be buried with ladies of 
that sort, and not the gentlewomen we have in this town, that 
fancy because they are gentlewomen the wind must not touch 
them, and go to church with as much airs as if they were 
queens, no less, and seem to think they are disgraced if they 
look at a farmer’s wife ! And see here how this good lady, for 
all she ’s a duchess, calls me ^ friend,’ and treats me as if I was 
her equal — and equal may I see her with the tallest church- 
tower in La Mancha ! And as for the acorns, senor, I ’ll send 
her ladyship a peck and such big ones that one might come to 
see them as a show and a wonder. And now, Sanchica, see 
that the gentleman is comfortable ; put up his horse, and get 
some eggs out of the stable, and cut plenty of badon, and let ’s 
give him his dinner like a prince ; for the good news he has 
brought, and his own bonny face deserve it all ; and meanwhile 
I ’ll run out and give the neighbors the news of our good luck, 
and father curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, who are 
and always have been such friends of thy father’s.” 

>Proy. 66. 


348 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That I will, mother,’’ said Sanchica ; but mind, you 
must give me half of that string ; for I don’t think my lady 
the duchess could have been so stupid as to send it all to you.” 

“It is all for thee, my child,” said Teresa; “but let me 
wear it round my neck for a few days ; for verily it seems to 
make my heart glad.” 

“ You will be glad, too,” said the page, “ when you see the 
bundle there is in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest 
cloth, that the governor only wore one day out hunting and 
now sends, all for Sefiora Sanchica.” 

“ May he live a thousand years,” said Sanchica, “ and the 
bearer as many, nay two thousand, if needful.” 

With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, 
and with the string of beads round her neck, and went along 
thrumming the letters as if they were a tambourine, and by 
chance coming across the curate and Samson Carrasco she 
began capering and saying, “ None of us poor now, faith ! 
We ’ve got a little government ! Ay, let the finest fine lady 
tackle me, and I ’ll give her a setting down ! ” 

“ What ’s all this, Teresa Panza,” said they ; “ what mad- 
ness is this, and what papers are those ? ” 

“ The madness is only this,” said she, “ that these are the 
letters of duchesses and governors, and these I have on my 
neck are fine coral beads, with ave-marias and paternosters of 
beaten gold, and I am a governess.” 

“ God help us,” said the curate, “ we don’t understand you, 
Teresa, or know what you are talking about.” 

“ There, you may see it yourselves,” said Teresa, and she 
handed them the letters. 

The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and 
Samson and he regarded one another with looks of astonish- 
ment at what they had read, and the bachelor asked who had 
brought the letters. Teresa in reply bade them come with her 
to her house and they would see the messenger, a most elegant 
youth, who had brought another present which was worth as 
much more. The curate took the coral beads from her neck 
and examined them again and again, and having satisfied him- 
self as to their fineness he fell to wondering afresh, and said, 
“ By the gown I wear I don’t know what to say or think of 
these letters and presents ; on the one hand I can see and feel 
the fineness of these coral beads, and on the other I read how 
a duchess sends to beg for a couple of dozen of acorns.” 


CHAPTER L. 


349 


Square that if you can/^ said Carrasco ; << well, let ’s go and 
see the messenger, and from him we ’ll learn something about 
this mystery that has turned up.” 

They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found 
the page sifting a little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cut- 
ting a rasher of bacon to be paved with eggs * for his dinner. 
His looks and his handsome apparel pleased them both greatly ; 
and after they had saluted him courteously, and he them, 
Samson begged him to give them his news, as well of Don 
Quixote as of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they had read 
the letters from Sancho and her ladyship the duchess, they 
were still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by 
Sancho’s government, and above all of an island, when all or 
most of those in the Mediterranean belonged to his majesty. 

To this the page replied, “ As to Senor Sancho Panza’s being 
a governor there is no doubt whatever ; but whether it is 
an island or not that he governs, with that I have nothing to 
do ; suffice it that it is a town of more than a thousand inhabi- 
tants ; with regard to the acorns I may tell you my lady the 
duchess is so unpretending and unassuming that, not to speak 
of sending to beg for acorns from a peasant woman, she has 
been known to send to ask for the loan of a comb from one of 
her neighbors ; for I would have your worships know that the 
ladies of Aragon, though they are just as illustrious, are not so 
punctilious and haughty as the Castilian ladies; they treat 
people with greater familiarity.” 

In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her 
skirt full of eggs, and said she to the page, Tell me, senor, 
does my father wear trunk-hose since he has been governor ? ” 
I have not noticed,” said the page ; but no doubt he wears 
them.” 

Ah ! my God ! ” said Sanchica, what a sight it must be to 
see my father in tights ! Is n’t it odd that ever since I was 
born I have had a longing to see my father in trunk-hose ? ” 
As things go you will see that if you live,” said the page ; 

by God he is in the way to take the road with a sunshade if 
the government only lasts him two months more.” 

The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that 
the page spoke in a waggish vein ; but the fineness of the coral 
beads, and the hunting suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had 

^ A graphic description of the dish aJ dressed in Spain, where the bacon 
and eggs are fried together. 


350 


DON QUIXOTE. 


already shown it to them) did away with the impression ; and 
they could not help laughing at Sanchica’s wish, and still more 
when Teresa said, “ Senor curate, look about if there ’s anybody 
here going to Madrid or Toledo, to buy me a hooped petticoat, 
a proper fashionable one of the best quality ; for indeed and 
indeed I must do honor to my husband’s government as well as 
I can ; nay, if I am put to it, I ’ll go to court and set up a coach 
like all the world ; for she who has a governor for her husband 
may very well have one and keep one.” 

And why not, mother ! ” said Sanchica ; would to God it 
were to-day instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say 
when they saw me seated in the coach with my mother, ‘ See 
that rubbish, that garlic-stuffed fellow’s daughter, how she goes 
stretched at her ease in a coach as if she was a she-pope ! ’ But 
let them tramp through the mud, and let me go in my coach 
with my feet off the ground. Bad luck to backbiters all over 
the world ; ‘ let me go warm and the people may laugh.’ ^ Do 
I say right, mother ? ” 

“ To be sure you do, my child,” said Teresa ; and all this 
good luck, and even more, my good Sancho foretold me ; and 
thou wilt see, my daughter, he won’t stop till he has made me 
a countess ; for to make a beginning is everything in luck ; 
and as I have heard thy good father say many a time (for be- 
sides being thy father he ’s the father of proverbs too), ‘ When 
they offer thee a heifer, run with a halter ; ^ when they offer 
thee a government, take it; when they would give thee a 
county, seize it ; when they say “ Here, here ! ” to thee with 
something good, swallow it.’ Oh no ! go to sleep, and don’t 
answer the strokes of good fortune and the lucky chances that 
are knocking at the door of your house ! ” 

And what do I care,” added Sanchica, “ whether anybody 
says when he sees me holding my head up, < The dog saw him- 
self in hempen breeches,’ and the rest of it ? ” ^ 

Hearing this the curate said, I do believe that all this 
family of the Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in 
their insides, every one of them ; I never saw one of them that 
does not pour them out at all times and on all occasions.” 

That is true,” said the page, “ for Senor Governor Sancho 
utters them at every turn ; and though a great many of them 
are not to the purpose, still they amuse one, and my lady the 
duchess and the duke praise them highly,” 

*ProT. 31. • Prov. 236. 


» ProY. 184. 


CHAPTER L. 


351 


Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho’s gov- 
ernment is true, senor,” said the bachelor, and that there 
actually is a duchess who sends him presents and writes to 
him ? Because we, although we have handled the presents and 
read the letters, don’t believe it, and suspect it to be something 
in the line of our fellow-townsman Don Quixote, who fancies 
that everything is done by enchantment ; and for this reason 
I am almost ready to say that I ’d like to touch and feel your 
worship to see whether you are a mere ambassador of the im- 
agination or a man of flesh and blood.” 

All I know, sirs,” replied the page, is that I am a real 
ambassador, and that Senor Sancho Panza is governor as a 
matter of fact, and that my lord and lady the duke and duch- 
ess can give, and have given him this same government, and 
that I have heard the said Sancho Panza bears himself very 
stoutly therein ; whether there be any enchantment in all this 
or not, it is for your worships to settle between you ; for that ’s 
all I know by the oath I swear, and that is by the life of my 
parents whom I have still alive, and love dearly.” 

It may be so,” said the bachelor ; but dubitat AugustinusP 
Doubt who will,” said the page ; what I have told you 
is the truth, and that will always rise above falsehood as oil 
above water ; ' if not operibus credite, et non verbis. Let one 
of you come with me, and he will see with his eyes what he 
does not believe with his ears.” 

It ’s for me to make that trip,” said Sanchica ; take me 
with you, senor, behind you on your horse ; for I ’ll go with 
all my heart to see my father.” 

‘^Governors’ daughters,” said the page, ‘‘must not travel 
along the roads alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters 
and a great number of attendants.” 

“ By God,” said Sanchica, “ I can go just as well mounted 
on a she-ass as in a coach ; what a dainty lass you must take 
me for ! ” 

“ Hush, girl,” said Teresa ; “ you don’t know what you ’re 
talking about ; the gentleman is quite right, for ‘ as the time so 
the behavior ; ’ ^ when it was Sancho it was ‘ Sancha ; ’ when it 
is governor it ’s ‘ senora; ’ I don’t know if I ’m right.” 

“ Senor Teresa says more than she is aware of,” said the 
page ; “ and now give me something to eat and let me go at 
once, for I mean to return this evening.” 

* Prov. 241. 


* Prov. 224. 


352 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Come and do penance with me,” said the curate at this ; 
for Senora Teresa has more will than means to serve so worthy 
a guest.” 

The page refused, but had to consent at last for his own 
sake ; and the curate took him home with him very gladly, in 
order to have an opportunity of questioning him at leisure 
about Don Quixote and his doings. The bachelor offered to 
write the letters in reply for Teresa ; but she did not care to 
let him mix himself up in her affairs, for she thought him 
somewhat given to joking ; and so she gave a cake and a couple 
of eggs to a young acolyte who was a penman, and he wrote 
for her two letters, one for her husband and the other for the 
duchess, dictated out of her own head, and these are not the 
worst inserted in this great history, as will be seen farther on. 


CHAPTER LI. 

OP THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO’s GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER 
SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS. 

Day came after the night of the governor’s round ; a night 
which the head-carver passed without sleeping, so full were 
his thoughts of the face and air and beauty of the disguised 
damsel, while the majordomo spent what was left of it in 
writing an account to his lord and lady of all Sancho said and 
did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at his doings, for 
there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in all his 
words and deeds. The senor governor got up, and by Doctor 
Pedro Recio’s directions they made him break his fast on a 
little conserve and four sups of cold water, which Sancho 
would have readily exehanged for a piece of bread and a bunch 
of grapes ; but seeing there was no help for it, he submitted 
with no little sorrow of heart and discomfort of stomach ; 
Pedro Recio having persuaded him that light and delicate diet 
enlivened the wits, and that was what was most essential for 
persons placed in command and in responsible situations, 
where they have to employ not only the bodily powers but 
those of the mind also. 

By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure 
hunger, and hunger so keen that in his heart he cursed the 


CHAPTER LI. 


353 


government, and even him who had given it to him ; however, 
with his hunger and his conserve he undertook to deliver judg- 
ments that day, and the first thing that came before him was a 
question that was submitted to him by a stranger, in the pres- 
ence of the majordomo and the other attendants, and it was in 
these words : Senor, a large river separated two districts of 
one and the same lordship — will your worship please to pay 
attention, for the case is an important and a rather knotty one ? 
Well then, on this river there was a bridge, and at one end of 
it a gallows, and a sort of tribunal, where four judges commonly 
sat to administer the law which the lord of the river, the bridge 
and the lordship had enacted, and which was to this effect, ^ If 
any one crosses by this bridge from one side to the other 
he shall declare on oath where he is going and with what 
object ; and if he swears truly, he shall be allowed to pass, 
but if falsely, he shall, without any remission, be put to death 
for it by hanging on the gallows erected there/ Though 
the law and its severe penalty were known, many persons 
crossed, but in their declarations it was easy to see at once 
they were telling the truth, and the judges let them pass free. 
It happened, however, that one man, when they came to take 
his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he 
was going to die upon that gallows that stood there, and noth- 
ing else. The judges held a consultation over the oath, and 
they said, ^ If we let this man pass free he has sworn falsely, 
and by the law he ought to die ; but if we hang him, as he 
swore he was going to die on that gallows, and therefore swore 
the truth, by the same law he ought to go free.’ It is asked 
of your worship, senor governor, what are the judges to do 
with this man ? For they are still in doubt and perplexity ; 
and having heard of your worship’s acute and exalted intellect, 
they have sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf to 
give your opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case.” ^ 

To this Sancho made answer, Indeed those gentlemen the 
judges that send you to me might have spared themselves the 
trouble, for I have more of the obtuse than the acute in me ; 
however, repeat the case over again, so that I may understand 
it, and then perhaps I may be able to hit the point.” 

The querist repeated again and again what he had said be- 

* This puzzle is very like one in Aulus Gellius, quoted also in Pedro 
Mexia’s Silva de Varia Lecdon (1. 1, c. xviii.) ; a book of curiosities of 
literature on which Cervantes draws more than once. 

VoL. n. - 23 


8 ^ 


DON QUIXOTE. 


fore, and then Sancho said, It seems to me I can set the mat 
ter right in a moment, and in this way ; the man swears that he 
is going to die upon the gallows ; but if he dies upon it, he has 
sworn the truth, and by the law enacted deserves to go free 
and pass over the bridge ; but if they don’t hang him, then he 
has sworn falsely, and by the same law deserves to be hanged.” 

It is as the senor governor says,” said the messenger ; 
and as regards a complete comprehension of the case, there 
is nothing left to desire or hesitate about.” 

^^Well then I say,” said Sancho, ^^that of this man they 
should let pass the part that has sworn truly, and hang the 
part that has lied ; and in this way the conditions of the pas- 
sage will be fully complied with.” 

“ But then, senor governor,” replied the querist, the man 
will have to be divided into two parts ; and if he is divided of 
course he will die ; and so none of the requirements of the law 
will be carried out, and it is absolutely necessary to comply 
with it.” 

Look here, my good sir,” said Sancho ; either I ’m a num- 
skull or else there is the same reason for this passenger dying 
as for his living and passing over the bridge ; for if the truth 
saves him the falsehood equally condemns him ; and that being 
the case it is my opinion you should say to the gentlemen who 
sent you to me that as the arguments for condemning him and 
for absolving him are exactly balanced, they should let him 
pass freely, as it is always more praiseworthy to do good than 
to do evil ; this I would give signed with my name if I knew 
how to sign ; and what I have said in this case is not out of my 
own head, but one of the many precepts my master Don Qui- 
xote gave me the night before I left to become governor of this 
island, that came into my mind, and it was this, that when 
there was any doubt about the justice of a case I should lean 
to mercy ; and it is God’s will that I should recollect it now, 
for it fits this case as if it was made for it.” 

That is true,” said the majordomo ; “ and I maintain that 
Lycurgus himself, who gave laws to the Lacaedemonians, could 
not have pronounced a better decision than the great Panza has 
given ; let the morning’s audience close with this, and I will 
see that the senor governor has dinner entirely to his liking.” 

‘‘ That ’s all I ask for — fair play,” said Sancho ; give me 
my dinner, and then let it rain cases and questions on me, and 
I ’ll despatch them in a twinkling.” 


CHAPTER LI. 


356 


The majordomo kept his word, for he felt it against his con 
science to kill so wise a governor by hunger ; particularly as La 
intended to have done with him that same night, playing off 
the last joke he was commissioned to practise upon him. 

It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in 
opposition to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, 
as they were taking away the cloth there came a courier with 
a letter from Don Quixote for the governor. Sancho ordered 
the secretary to read it to himself, and if there was nothing in it 
that demanded secrecy to read it aloud. The secretary did so, 
and after he had skimmed the contents he said, It may well 
be read aloud, for what Senor Don Quixote writes to your wor- 
ship deserves to be printed or written in letters of gold, and it 
is as follows.’’ 

Don Quixote of La IVIancha’s Letter to Sancho Panza, 
Governor of the Island of Barataria. 

“ When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, 
friend Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy displays of good 
sense, for which I give special thanks to Heaven that can raise the 
poor from the dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell 
me thou dost govern as if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou 
wert a beast, so great is the humility wherewith thou dost comport 
th3’self. But I would have thee bear in mind, Sancho, that very 
often it is fitting and necessary for the authority of office to resist the 
humility of the heart; for the seemly array of one who is invested 
with grave duties should be such as they require and not measured 
by what his own humble tastes may lead him to prefer. Dress well ; 
a stick dressed up does not look like a stick ; * I do not say thou 
shouldst wear trinkets or fine raiment, or that being a judge thou 
shouldst dress like a soldier, but that thou shouldst arraj' thyself in 
the apparel thy office requires, and that at the same time it be neat 
and handsome. To win the good-will of the people thou governest 
there are two things, among others, that thou must do ; one is to 
be civil to all (this, however, I told thee before) and the other to take 
care that food be abundant, for there is nothing that vexes the heart 
of the poor more than hunger and high prices. Make not many 
proclamations ; but those thou makest take care that they be good 
ones, and above all that they be observed and carried out ; for proc- 
lamations that are not observed are the same as if they did not exist ; 
nay, they encourage the idea that the prince who had the wisdom and 
authorit}’^ to make them had not the power to enforce them ; and laws 
that threaten and are not enforced come to be like the log. the king 
of the frogs, that frightened them at first, but that in time they de- 
spised and mounted upon. Be a father to virtue and a step-father to 

» Prov. 16S. 


356 


DON QUIXOTE, 


vice. Be not always strict, nor yet always lenient, but observe a 
mean between these two extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. 
Visit the jails, the slaughter-houses, and the market-places; for the 
presence of the governor is of great importance in such places; it 
comforts the prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy release, it is the 
bugbear of the butchers who have then to give just weight, and it is 
the terror of the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be 
seen that thou art (even if perchance thou art, which I do not believe) 
covetous, a follower of women, or a glutton ; for when the people 
and those that have dealings with thee become aware of thy special 
weakness they will bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that 
quarter, till they have brought thee down to the depths of perdition. 
Consider and reconsider, con and con over again the advice and the 
instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy govern- 
ment, and thou wilt see that in them, if thou dost follow them, thou 
hast a help at hand that will lighten for thee the troubles and difficul- 
ties that beset governors at every step. Write to thy lord and lady 
and show thyself grateful to them, for ingratitude is the daughter of 
pride, and one of the greatest sins we know of ; and he who is grateful 
to those who have been good to him shows that he will be so to God 
also who has bestowed and still bestows so many blessings upon him. 

“ My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and an- 
other present to thy wife Teresa Panza ; we expect the answer every 
moment. I have been a little indisposed through a certain cat-scratch- 
ing I came in for, not very much to the benefit of my nose ; but it 
was nothing; for if there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are 
also some who defend me. Let me know if the majordomo who is 
with thee had any share in the Trifaldi performance, as thou didst 
suspect ; and keep me informed of everything that happens to thee, as 
the distance is so short; all the more as I am thinking of giving over 
very shortly this idle life I am now leading, for I was not born for 
it. A thing has occurred to me which I am inclined to think will 
put me out of favor with the duke and duchess ; but though I am 
sorry for it I do not care, for after all I must obey my calling rather 
than their pleasure, in accordance with the common saying amicus 
Plato, sed magis arnica veriias. I quote this Latin to thee because 
I conclude that since thou hast been a governor thou wilt have learned 
it. Adieu; God keep thee from being an object of pity to any one. 

“ Thy friend 

“ Don Quixote of La Mancha.” 

Sancho listened to th.e letter with great attention, and it was 
praised and considered wise by all who heard it ; he then rose 
up from table, and calling his secretary shut himself in with 
him in his own room, and without putting it off any longer set 
about answering his master Don Quixote at once ; and he bade 
the secretary write down what he told him without adding or 
suppressing anything, which he did, and the answer was to the 
following effect. 


CHAPTER LI. 


357 


Sancho Panza’s Letter to Don Quixote op La Mancha. 

“The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time 
to scrateh my head or even to cut my nails ; and I wear them so 
long — God send a remedy for it. 1 say this, master of my soul, 
that you may not be surprised if I have not until now sent you word 
of how I fare, well or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering 
more hunger than when we two were wandering through the woods 
and wastes. 

“ My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that 
certain spies had got into this island to kill me ; but up to the present 
I have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a 
salarv in this town for killing all the governors that come here ; he 
is called Doctor Pedro Kecio, and is from Tirteafuera ; so you see 
what a name he has to make me dread dying under his hands". This 
doctor says of himself that he does not cure diseases when there are 
any, but prevents them coming, and the medicines he uses are diet 
and more diet, until he brings one down to bare bones ; as if lean- 
ness was not worse than fever. 

“ In short he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of 
vexation ; for when I thought 1 was coming to this government to get 
my meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland 
sheets on feather beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I was 
a hermit ; and as I don’t do it willingly I suspect that in the end the 
devil will carry me off. 

“ So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I 
don’t know what to think of it ; for here they tell me that the gov- 
ernors that come to this island, before entering it have plenty of 
money either given to them or lent to them by the people of the town, 
and that this is the usual custom not only here but with all who enter 
upon governments. 

“ Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man’s 
clothes, and a brother of hers dressed as a woman ; my head-carver 
has fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen her 
for a wife, so he says, and I have chosen the youth for a son-in-law ; 
to-day we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the pair, 
who is one Diego de la Liana, a gentleman and an old Christian as 
much as you please. 

“ I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, 
and yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazelnuts and 
proved her to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a 
bushel of new ; I confiscated the whole for the children of the charity 
school, who will know how to distinguish them well enough, and I 
sentenced her not to come into the market-place for a fortnight ; they 
told me I did bravely. I can tell your worship it is commonly 
said in this town that there are no people worse than the market- 
women, for they are all barefaced, unconscionable, and impudent, 
and I can well believe it from what I have seen of them in other 
towns. 

“ I am veiy glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife 


358 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Teresa Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of ; and 
I will strive to show myself grateful when the time comes ; kiss her 
hands for me, and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack 
with a hole in it, as she will see in the end. I should not like your 
worship to have any ditference with my lord and lady ; for if you fall 
out with them it is plain it must do me harm ; and as you give me 
advice to be grateful it will not do for your worship not to be so 
yourself to those who have shown you such kindness, and by whom 
you have been treated so hospitably in their castle. 

“ That about the cat-scratching 1 don’t understand ; but I suppose it 
must be one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing 
your worship ; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I 
could send your worship something ; but I don’t know what to send, 
unless it be some very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, 
that they make in this island ; but if the office remains with me I ’ll 
find out something to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa 
Panza writes to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I have 
a very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children are 
going on. And so, may God deliver your worship from evil-minded 
enchanters, and bring me well and peacefully out of this govern- 
ment, which I doubt, for I expect to take leave of it and my life 
together, from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me. 

“ Your worship’s servant 

“ Sancho Panza the Governor.” 

The secretary sealed the letter, and immediately dismissed 
the courier; and those who were carrying on the joke against 
Sancho putting their heads together arranged how he was to 
be dismissed from the government. Sancho spent the after- 
noon in drawing up certain ordinances relating to the good 
government of what he fancied the island ; and he ordained 
that there were to be no provision hucksters in the State, and 
that men might import wine into it from any place they 
pleased, provided they declared the quarter it came from, so 
that a price might be put upon it according to its quality, repu- 
tation, and the estimation it was held in ; and he that watered 
his wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit his life for it. 
He reduced the prices of all manner of shoes, boots, and stock- 
ings, but of shoes in particular, as they seemed to him to run 
extravagantly high. He established a fixed rate for servants^ 
wages, which were becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid 
extremely heavy penalties upon those who sang lewd or 
loose songs either by day or night. He decreed that no blind 
man should sing of any miracle in verse, unless he could pro- 
duce authentic evidence that it was true, for it was his opinion 


CHAPTER LIT, 


359 


that most of those the blind men sing are trumped up, to the 
detriment of the true ones. He established and created an 
alguacil of the poor, not to harass them, but to examine them 
and see whether they really were so ; for many a sturdy thief 
or drunkard goes about under cover of a make-believe crippled 
limb or a sham sore. In a word, he made so many good rules 
that to this day they are preserved there, and are called The 
constitutions of the great governor Sancho Panza, 


CHAPTER LII. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DIS- 
TRESSED OR AFFLICTED DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DONA 

RODRIGUEZ. 

CiD Hamet relates that Don Quixote being now cured of 
his scratches felt that the life he was leading in the castle was 
entirely inconsistent with the order of chivalry he professed, 
so he determined to ask the duke and duchess to permit him 
to take his departure for Saragossa, as the time of the festival 
was now drawing near, and he hoped to win there the suit of 
armor which is the prize at festivals of the sort. But one day 
at table with the duke and duchess, just as he was about to 
carry his resolution into effect and ask for their permission, lo 
and behold suddenly there came in through the door of the 
great hall two women, as they afterwards proved to be, draped 
in mourning from head to foot, one of whom approaching Don 
Quixote flung herself at full length at his feet, pressing her 
lips to them, and uttering moans so sad, so deep, and so dole- 
ful that she put all who heard and saw her into a state of per- 
plexity; and though the duke and duchess supposed it must 
be some joke their servants were playing off upon Don Quixote, 
still the earnest way the woman sighed and moaned and wept 
puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until Don Qui- 
xote, touched with compassion, raised her up and made her 
unveil herself and remove the mantle from her tearful face. 
She complied and disclosed what no one could have ever antici- 
pated, for she disclosed the countenance of Dona Rodriguez, 
the duenna of the house ; the other female in mourning being 
her daughter, who had been made a fool of by the rich farmer’s 


360 


DON QUIXOTE. 


son. All who knew her were filled with astonishment, and the 
duke and duchess more than any ; for though they thought her 
a simpleton and a weak creature, they did not think her capa- 
ble of crazy pranks. Dona Eodriguez, at length, turning to 
her master and mistress said to them, Will your excellences 
be pleased to permit me to speak to this gentleman for a 
moment, for it is requisite I should do so in order to get suc- 
cessfully out of the business in which the boldness of an evil- 
minded clown has involved me ? ’’ 

The duke said that for his part he gave her leave, and that 
she might speak with Senor Don Quixote as much as she liked. 

She then, turning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to 
him said, Some days since, valiant knight, I gave you an 
account of the injustice and treachery of a wicked farmer to 
my dearly beloved daughter, the unhappy damsel here before 
you, and you promised me to take her part and right the wrong 
that has been done her ; but now it has come to my hearing 
that you are about to depart from this castle in quest of such 
fair adventures as God may vouchsafe to you ; therefore, before 
you take the road, I would that you challenge this froward 
rustic, and compel him to marry my daughter in fulfilment of 
the promise he gave her to become her husband before he 
seduced her ; for to expect that my lord the duke will do me 
justice is to ask pears from the elm tree,^ for the reason I stated 
privately to your worship ; and so may our Lord grant you good 
health and forsake us not.” 

To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and 
solemnly, Worthy duenna, check your tears, or rather dry 
them, and spare your sighs ; for I take it upon myself to obtain 
redress for your daughter, for whom it would have been better 
not to have been so ready to believe lovers’ promises, which are 
for the most part quickly made and very slowly performed ; and 
so, with my lord the duke’s leave, I will at once go in quest of 
this inhuman youth, and will find him out and challenge him 
and slay him, if so be he refuses to keep his promised word ; 
for the chief object of my profession is to spare the humble and 
chastise the proud ; I mean, to help the distressed and destroy 
the oppressors.” 

“ There is no necessity,” said the duke, for your worship 
to take the trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this 
worthy duenna complains, nor is there any necessity, either, 

» Prov. 180. 


CHAPTER LIL 


361 


for asking my leave to challenge him ; for 1 admit him duly 
challenged, and will take care that he is informed of the chal- 
lenge, and accepts it, and comes to answer it in person to this 
castle of mine, where I shall aiford to both a fair field, observ- 
ing all the conditions which are usually and properly observed 
in such trials, and observing too justice to both sides, as all 
princes who offer a free field to combatants within the limits of 
their lordships are bound to do.’’ 

“ Then with that assurance and your highness’s good leave,” 
said Don Quixote, I hereby for this once waive my privilege 
of gentle blood, and come down and put myself on a level with 
the lowly birth of the wrong-doer, making myself equal with 
him and enabling him to enter into combat with me ; and so, I 
challenge and defy him, though absent, on the plea of his mal- 
feasance in breaking faith with this poor damsel, who was a 
maiden and now by his misdeed is none ; and say that he shall 
fulfil the promise he gave her to become her lawful husband, 
or else stake his life upon the question.” 

And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle 
of the hall, and the duke picked it up, saying, as he had said 
before, that he accepted the challenge in the name of his vassal, 
and fixed six days thence as the time, the courtyard of the 
castle as the place, and for arms the customary ones of knights, 
lance and shield and full armor, with all the other accessories, 
without trickery, guile, or charms of any sort, and examined 
and passed by the judges of the field. “ But first of all,” he 
said, it is requisite that this worthy duenna and unworthy 
damsel should place their claim for justice in the hands of Don 
Quixote ; for otherwise nothing can be done, nor can the said 
challenge be brought to a lawful issue.” 

I do so place it,” replied the duenna. 

And I too,” added her daughter, all in tears and covered 
with shame and confusion. 

This declaration having been made, and the duke having 
settled in his own mind what he would do in the matter, the 
ladies in black withdrew, and the duchess gave orders that for 
the future they were not to be treated as servants of hers, but 
as lady adventurers who came to her house to demand justice ; 
so they gave them a room to themselves and waited on them as 
they would on strangers, to the consternation of the other 
women-servants, who did not know where the folly and impu- 
dence of Dona Eodriguez and her unlucky daughter would stop. 


362 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring 
the dinner to a satisfactory end, lo and behold the page who 
had carried the letters and presents to Teresa Panza, the wife 
of the governor Sancho, entered the hall ; and the duke and 
duchess were very well pleased to see him, being anxious to 
know the result of his journey ; but when they asked him the 
page said in reply that he could not give it before so many 
people or in a few words, and begged their excellences to be 
pleased to let it wait for a private opportunity, and in the 
meantime amuse themselves with these letters ; and taking 
out the letters he placed them in the duchess’s hand. One bore 
by way of address. Letter for my lady the Duchess So-and-so, of 
I don’t know where ; and the other. To my husband Sancho 
Panza, governor of the island of Barataria, whom God prosper 
longer than me. The duchess’s bread would not bake, as the 
saying is, until she had read her letter ; and having looked over 
it herself and seen that it might be read aloud for the dnke and 
all present to hear, she read out as follows. 

Teresa Panza’s Letter to the Duchess. 

“The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great 
pleasure, for indeed I found it very welcome. The string of coral 
beads is very fine, and my husband’s hunting suit does not fall short 
of it. All this village is very much pleased that your ladyship has 
made a governor of my good man Sancho ; though nobody will 
believe it, particularly the curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, and ' 
the bachelor Samson Carrasco ; but I don’t care for that, for so long as 
it is true, as it is, they may all say what they like ; though, to tell the 
truth, if the coral beads and the suit had not come I would not have 
believed it either ; for in this village everybody thinks my husband 
a numskull, and except for governing a flock of goats, they cannot 
fancy what sort of government he can be fit for. God grant it, and 
direct him according as he sees his children stand in need of it. I 
am resolved with your worship’s leave, lady of my soul, to make the 
most of this fair day, and go to Court to stretch myself at ease in a 
coach, and make all those I have envying me already burst their 
eyes out; so I beg your excellence to order my husband to send me 
a small trifle of money, and to let it be something to speak of, be- 
cause one’s expenses are heavy at the Court; for a loaf costs a real, 
and meat thirty maravedis a pound, which is beyond everything ; 
and if he does not want me to go let him tell me in time, for my 
feet are on the fidgets to be off ; and my friends and neighbors tell 
me that if my daughter and I make a figure and a brave show at 
Court, my husband will come to be known far more by me than I by 
him, for of course plenty of people will ask, ‘ Who are those ladies 
in that coach ? ’ and some servant of mine will answer, ‘ The wife 


CHAPTER LIL 


363 


and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria ; ' 
and in this way Sancho will become known, and I ’ll be thought well 
of, and ‘ to Rome for everything.’ * I am as vexed as vexed can be 
that they have gathered no acorns this year in our village ; for all 
that I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood 
to gather and pick out one by one myself, and I could find no bigger 
ones ; I wish they were as big as ostrich eggs. 

“ Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me ; and I will 
take care to answer, and let you know how I am, and wliatever news 
there may be in this place, where I remain, praying our Lord to 
have your highness in his keeping and not to forget me. 

“ Sancha, my daughter, and my son, kiss your worship’s hands. 

“ She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you, 

“ Your servant, 

“ Teresa Panza.” 

All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza’s letter, but par- 
ticularly the duke and duchess ; and the duchess asked Don 
Quixote’s opinion whether they might open the letter that had 
come for the governor, which she suspected must be very good. 
Don Quixote said that to gratify them he would open it, and 
did so, and found that it ran as follows. 


Teresa Panza’s Letter to her Husband Sancho Panza. 

“ I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and I promise thee and 
swear as a Catholic Christian that I was within two fingers’ breadth 
of going mad, I was so happy. I can tell thee, brother, when I 
came to hear that thou wert a governor I thought I should have 
dropped dead with pure joy ; and thou knowest they say sudden joy 
kills as well as great sorrow; and as for Sanchica thy daughter, she 
leaked from sheer happiness. 1 had before me the suit thou didst 
send me, and the coral beads my lady the duchess sent me round my 
neck, and the letters in my hands, and there was the bearer of them 
standing by, and in spite of all this I verily believed and thought 
that what 1 saw and handled was all a dream; for who could have 
thought that a goat-herd would come to be a governor of islands 
Thou knowest, my friend, what my mother used to say, that one 
must live long to see much ; I say it because I expect to see more if I 
live longer; for I don’t expect to stop until T see thee a farmer of 
taxes or a collector of revenue, which are offices where, though the 
devil carries off those who make a bad use of them, still they make 
and handle money. My lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I 
have to go to the Court; consider the matter and let me know thy 
pleasure ; I will try to do honor to thee by going in a coach. 

“ Neither the curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even 

iProv. 207. 


364 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the sacristan, can believe that thou art a governor, and they say the 
whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair, like everything 
belonging to thy master Don Quixote ; and Samson says he must go 
in search of thee and drive the government out of thy head and the 
madness out of Don Quixote’s skull ; I only laugh, and look at my 
string of beads, and plan out the dress I am going to make for our 
daughter out of thy suit. I sent some acorns to my lady the duchess ; 
I wish they had been gold. Send me some strings of pearls if they 
are in fashion in that island. Here is the news of the village ; La 
Berrueca has married her daughter to a good-for-nothing painter, who 
came here to paint anything that might turn up. The council gave 
him an order to paint his Majesty’s arms over the door of the town- 
hall ; he asked two ducats, which they paid him in advance ; he 
worked for eight days, and at the end of them had nothing painted, 
and then said he had no turn for painting such trifling things ; he 
returned the money, and for all that has married on the pretence of 
being a good workman ; to be sure he has now laid aside his paint- 
brush and taken a spade in hand, and goes to the field like a gentle- 
man. Pedro Lobo’s son has received the first orders and tonsure, 
with the intention of becoming a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato’s 
granddaughter, found it out, and has gone to law with him on the 
score of having given her promise of marriage. Evil tongues say 
she is with child by him, but he 'denies it stoutly. There are no 
olives this year, and there is not a drop of vinegar to be had in the 
whole village. A company of soldiers passed through here ; when 
they left they took away with them three of the girls of the village ; 
I will not tell thee who they are ; perhaps they will come back, and 
they will be sure to find those who will take them for wives with all 
their blemishes, good or bad. Sanchica is making bone-lace; she 
earns eight maravedis a day clear, which she puts into a money-box 
as a help towards house furnishing ; but now that she is a governor’s 
daughter thou wilt give her a portion without her working for it. 
The fountain in the plaza has run dry. A flash of lightning struck 
the gibbet, and I wish they all lit there. I look for an answer to 
this, and to know thy mind about my going to the Court ; and so, 
God keep thee longer than me, or as long, for I would not leave thee 
in this world without me. 

“ Thy wife, 

“Teresa Panza.” 

The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and ad- 
mired ; and then, as if to put the seal to the business, the courier 
arrived, bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixote, and this, 
too, was read out, and it raised some doubts as to the govern- 
or’s simplicity. The duchess withdrew to hear from the page 
about his adventures in Sancho’s village, which he narrated at 
full length without leaving a single circumstance unmentioned. 
He gave her the acorns, and also a cheese which Teresa had 


CHAPTER LIII. 


365 


given him as being particularly good and superior to those of 
Tronchond The duchess received it with greatest delight, in 
which we will leave her, to describe the end of the government 
of the great Sancho Panza, flower and mirror of all governors 
of islands. 


CHAPTEE LIII. 

OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA^S 
GOVERNMENT CAME TO. 

To fancy that in this life anything belonging to it will re- 
main forever in the same state, is an idle fancy ; on the con- 
trary, in it everything seems to go in a circle, I mean round and 
round. The spring succeeds the summer, the summer the fall, 
the fall the autumn, the autumn the winter, and the winter the 
spring,^ and so time rolls with never-ceasing wheel. Man’s 
life alone, swifter than time, speeds onward to its end with- 
out any hope of renewal, save it be in that other life which is 
endless and boundless. Thus saith Cid Hamet the Mahometan 
philosopher ; for there are many that by the light of nature 
alone, without the light of faith, have a comprehension of the 
fleeting nature and instability of this present life and the end- 
less duration of that eternal life we hope for ; but our author is 
here speaking of the rapidity with which Sancho’s government 
came to an end, melted away, disappeared, vanished as it were 
in smoke and shadow. For as he lay in bed on the night of 
the seventh day of his government, sated, not with bread and 
wine, but with delivering judgments and giving opinions and 
making laws and proclamations, just as sleep, in spite of hunger, 
was beginning to close his eyelids, he heard such a noise of bell- 
ringing and shouting that one would have fancied the whole 
island was going to the bottom. He sat up in bed and re- 
mained listening intently to try if he could make out what 
could be the cause of so great an uproar ; not only, however, 
was he unable to discover what it was, but as countless drums 
and trumpets now helped to swell the din of the bells and 

' A town in Aragon, between Teruel and Morelia. 

* So the passage stands in the original : and so no doubt Cervantes 
wrote it. 


366 


DON QUIXOTE. 


shouts, he was more puzzled than ever, and filled with fear and 
terror ; and getting up he put on a pair of slippers because of 
the dampness of the floor, and without throwing a dressing 
gown or anything of the kind over him he rushed out of the 
door of his room, just in time to see approaching along a corri- 
dor a band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches 
and naked swords in their hands, all shouting out, “ To arms, 
to arms, senor governor, to arms ! The enemy is in the island 
in countless numbers, and we are lost unless your skill and valor 
come to our support.” 

Keeping up this noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where 
Sancho stood dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heard, 
and as they approached one of them called out to him, ^^Arm 
at once, your lordship, if you would not have yourself destroyed 
and the whole island lost.” 

What have I to do with arming ? ” said Sancho. What 
do I know about arms or supports ? Better leave all that to my 
master Don Quixote, who will settle it and make all safe in a 
trice ; for I, sinner that I am^ God help me, don’t understand 
these scufi0.es.” 

Ah, senor governor,” said another, what slackness of 
mettle this is ! Arm yourself ; here are arms for you, offen- 
sive and defensive ; come out to the plaza and be our leader 
and captain ; it falls upon you by right to be so, for you are 
our governor.” 

Arm me then, in God’s name,” said Sancho, and they at 
once produced two large shields they had come provided with, 
and placed them upon him over his shirt, without letting him 
put on anything else, one shield in front and the other behind, 
and passing his arms through openings they had made, they 
bound him tight with ropes, so that there he was walled and 
boarded up as straight as a spindle and unable to bend his 
knees or stir a single step. In his hand they placed a lance, 
on which he leant to keep himself from falling, and as soon 
as they had him thus fixed, they bade him march forward and 
lead them on and give them all courage ; for with him for their 
guide and lamp and morning star, they were sure to bring their 
business to a successful issue. 

How am I to march, unlucky being that I am ? ” said 
Sancho, when I can’t stir my knee-caps, for these boards I 
have bound so tight to my body won’t let me. What you must 
do is to carry me in your arms, and lay me across or set me 


CHAPTER LIIL 


367 


upright in some postern, and I ’ll hold it either with this lance 
or with my body.” 

On, sehor governor ! ” cried another, it is fear more than 
the boards that keeps you from moving ; make haste, stir your- 
self, for there is no time to lose ; the enemy is increasing in 
numbers, the shouts grow louder, and the danger is pressing.” 

Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor gov- 
ernor made an attempt to advance, but fell to the ground with 
such a crash that he fancied he had broken himself all to 
pieces. There he lay like a tortoise enclosed in its shell, or a 
side of bacon between two kneading-troughs, or a boat bottom 
up on the beach ; nor did the gang of jokers feel any com- 
passion for him when they saw him down ; so far from that, 
extinguishing their torches they began to shout afresh and to 
renew the calls to arms with such energy, trampling on poor 
Sancho, and slashing at him over the shield with their swords 
in such a way that, if he had not gathered himself together 
and made himself small and drawn in his head between the 
shields, it would have fared badly with the poor governor, as, 
squeezed into that narrow compass, he lay, sweating and- 
sweating again, and commending himself with all his heart 
to God to deliver him from his present peril. Some stumbled 
over him, others fell upon him, and one there was who took up 
a position on top of him for some time, and from thence as 
if from a watch-tower issued orders to the troops, shouting 
out, Here, our side ! Here the enemy is thickest ! Hold 
the breach there ! Shut that gate ! Barricade those ladders ! 
Here with your stink-pots of pitch and resin, and kettles of 
boiling oil ! Block the streets with feather beds ! ” In short, 
in his ardor he mentioned every little thing, and every imple- 
ment and engine of war by means of which an assault upon a 
city is warded off, while the bruised and battered Sancho, who 
heard and suffered all, was saying to himself, 0 if it would 
only please the Lord to let the island be lost at once, and I 
could see myself either dead or out of this torture ! ” Heaven 
heard his prayer, and when he least expected it he heard 
voices exclaiming, Victory, victory ! The enemy retreats 
beaten ! Come, senor governor, get up, and come and enjoy 
the victory, and divide the spoils that have been won from the 
foe by the might of that invincible arm.” 

Lift me up,” said the wretched Sancho in a woe-begone 
voice. They helped him to rise, and as soon as he was on his 


368 


DON QUIXOTE. 


feet he said, ‘‘ The enemy I have beaten you may nail to my 
forehead ; I don’t want to divide the spoils of the foe, I only 
beg and entreat some friend, if I have one, to give me a sup of 
wine, for I ’m parched with thirst, and wipe me dry, for I ’m 
turning to water.” 

They rubbed him down, fetched him wine and unbound the 
shields, and he seated himself upon his bed, and with fear, 
agitation, and fatigue he fainted away. Those who had been 
concerned in the joke were now sorry they had pushed it so 
far ; however, the anxiety his fainting away had caused them 
was relieved by his returning to himself. He asked what 
o’clock it was ; they told him it was just daybreak. He said 
no more, and in silence began to dress himself, while all 
watched him, waiting to see what the haste with which he was 
putting on his clothes meant. 

He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was 
sorely bruised and could not go fast, he proceeded to the stable, 
followed by all who were present, and going up to Dapple em- 
braced him and gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, and 
•said to him, not without tears in his eyes, Come along, com- 
rade and friend and partner of my toils and sorrows ; when I 
was with you and had no cares to trouble me except mending 
your harness and feeding your little carcass, happy were my 
hours, my days, and my years ; but since I left you, and 
mounted the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand mis- 
eries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand anxieties have 
entered into my soul ; ” and all the while he was speaking in 
this strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on the ass, without a 
word from any one. Then having Dapple saddled, he, with 
great pain and difficulty, got up on him, and addressing him- 
self to the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, and 
Pedro Recio the doctor and several others who stood by, he 
said, “ Make way, gentlemen, and let me go back to my old 
freedom ; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself up 
from this present death. I was not born to be a governor or 
protect islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack 
them. Ploughing and digging, vine-dressing and pruning, are 
more in my way than defending provinces or kingdoms. Saint 
Peter is very well at Rome ; ^ I mean each of us is best follow- 
ing the trade he was born to. A reaping-hook fits my hand 
better than a governor’s sceptre ; I ’d rather have my fill of 

^ Prov. 206. 


CHAPTER LIIL 


369 


gazpacho^ than be subject to the misery of a meddling doctor 
who kills me with hunger, and I ’d rather lie in summer under 
the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double 
sheep-skin jacket in freedom, than go to bed between bolland 
sheets and dress in sables under the restraint of a government. 
God be with your worships, and tell my lord the duke that 
‘ naked I was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor 
gain ; ’ 2 1 mean that without a farthing I came into this gov- 
ernment, and without a farthing I go out of it, very different 
from the way governors commonly leave other islands. Stand 
aside and let me go ; I have to plaster myself, for I believe 
every one of my ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies that 
have been trampling over me to-night.’^ 

That is unnecessary, sen or governor,’^ said Doctor Recio, 
for I will give your worship a draught against falls and 
bruises that will soon make you as sound and strong as ever ; 
and as for your diet I promise your worship to behave better, 
and let you eat plentifully of whatever you like.’’ 

“ You spoke late,” said Sancho. I ’d as soon turn Turk as 
stay any longer. Those jokes won’t pass a second time. By 
God I ’d as soon remain in this government, or take another, 
even if it was offered me between two plates, as fly to heaven 
without wings. I am of the breed of the Panzas, and they are 
every one of them obstinate, and if they once say ‘ odds,’ odds 
it must be, no matter if it is evens, in spite of all the world. 
Here in this stable I leave the ant’s wings that lifted me up 
into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat me,^ and let ’s 
take to level ground and our feet once more ; and if they ’re 
not shod in pinked shoes of cordovan, they won’t want for 
rough sandals of hemp ; ^ every ewe to her like,’ ^ ^ and let no 
one stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet ; ’ ® and now 
let me pass, for it ’s growing late with me.” 

To this the majordomo said, Senor governor, we would let 
your worship go with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us 
to lose you, for your wit and Christian conduct naturally make 
us regret you ; but it is well known that every governor, 
before he leaves the place where he has been governing, is 
bound first of all to render an account. Let your worship do 

^ The favorite noontide mess of the Andalusian peasantry ; consisting 
of cucumbers shred fine, bread-crumbs, oil, vinegar, and water fresh 
from the spring, 
sprov. 73. Prov. 118. 

VoL. II. — 24 


^ Prov. 162. 


5 Prov. 187. 


3T0 


DON QUIXOTE. 


so for the ten days you have held the government, and then 
you may go and the peace of God go with you/^ 

“No one can demand it of me/’ said Sancho, “ but he whom 
my lord the duke shall appoint ; I am going to meet him, and 
to him I will render an exact one ; besides, when I go forth 
naked as I do, there is no other proof needed to show that I 
have governed like an angel.” 

“ By God the great Sancho is right, said Doctor Eecio, 
“ and it is my opinion we should let him go, for the duke will 
be beyond measure glad to see him.” 

They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first offering 
to bear him company and furnish him with all he wanted for 
his own comfort or for the journey. Sancho said he did not 
want anything more than a little barley for Dapple, and half 
a cheese and half a loaf for himself ; for the distance being so 
short there was no occasion for any better or bulkier provant. 
They all embraced him, and he with tears embraced all of 
them, and left tliem filled with admiration not only at his 
remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY 
AND NO OTHER. 

The duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don 
Quixote had, tor the reason already mentioned, given their 
vassal, should be proceeded with ; and as the young man was 
in Flanders, whither he had fled to escape having Dona Rod- 
riguez for a mother-in-law, they arranged to substitute for him 
a Gascon lackey, named Tosilos, first of all carefully instruct- 
ing him in all he had to do. Two days later the duke told 
Don Quixote that in four days from that time his opponent 
would present himself on the field of battle armed as a knight, 
and would maintain that the damsel lied by half a beard, nay 
a whole beard,^ if she affirmed that he had given her a promise 
of marriage. Don Quixote was greatly pleased at the news, 
and promised himself to do wonders in the lists, and reckoned 
it rare good fortune that an opportunity should have offered 
^ A phrase for lying impudently. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


371 


for letting his noble hosts see what the might of his strong 
arm was capable of ; and so in high spirits and satisfaction he 
awaited the expiration of the four days, which measured by 
his impatience seemed spinning themselves out into four hun- 
dred ages. Let us leave them to pass as we do other things, 
and go and bear Sancho company, as mounted on Dapple, half 
glad, half sad, he paced along on his road to join his master, 
in whose society he was happier than in being governor of all 
the islands in the world. Well then, it so happened that 
before he had gone a great way from the island of his govern- 
ment (and whether it was island, city, town, or village that he 
governed he never troubled himself to inquire) he saw coming 
along the road he was travelling six pilgrims with staves, 
foreigners of that sort that beg for alms singing ; who as they 
drew near arranged then^selves in a line and lifting up their 
voices all together began to sing in their own language some- 
thing that Sancho could not understand, with the exception of 
one word which sounded plainly alms,’’ from which he 
gathered that it was alms they asked for in their song ; and 
being, as Cid Hamet says, remarkably charitable, he took out 
of his alforjas the half loaf and half cheese he had been pro- 
vided with, and gave them to them, explaining to them by 
signs that he had nothing else to give them. They received 
them very gladly, but exclaimed, Geld ! Geld ! ” 

I don’t understand what you want of me, good people,” 
said Sancho. 

On this one of them took a purse out of his bosom and 
showed it to Sancho, by which he comprehended they were 
asking for money, and putting his thumb to his throat and 
spreading his hand upwards he gave them to understand that 
he had not the sign of a coin about him, and urging Dapple 
forward he broke through them. But as he was passing, one 
of them who had been examining him very closely rushed towards 
him, and flinging his arms round him exclaimed in a loud voice 
and good Spanish, God bless me ! What ’s this I see ? Is it 
possible that I hold in my arms my dear friend, my good neigh- 
bor Sancho Panza ? But there ’s no doubt about it, for I ’m not 
asleep, nor am I drunk just now.” 

Sancho was surprised to hear himself called by his name and 
find himself embraced by a foreign pilgrim, and after regarding 
him steadily without speaking he was still unable to recognize 
him 5 but the pilgrim perceiving his perplexity cried, ‘‘ What 1 


372 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and is it possible, Sancbo Panza, that thou dost not know thy 
neighbor Ricote, the Morisco shopkeeper of thy village ? 

Sancho upon this looking at him more carefully began to 
recall his features, and at last recognized him perfectly, and 
without getting off the ass threw his arms round his neck say- 
ing, Who the devil could have known thee, Eicote, in this 
mummer’s dress thou art in ? Tell me, who has frenchified 
thee, and how dost thou dare to return to Spain, where if they 
catch thee and recognize thee it will go hard enough with 
thee ? ” 

If thou dost not betray me, Sancho,” said the pilgrim, I 
am safe ; for in this dress no one will recognize me ; but let us 
turn aside out of the road into that grove there where my com- 
rades are going to eat and rest, and thou shalt eat with them 
there, for they are very good fellows ; I shall have time enough 
to tell thee then all that has happened to me since I left our 
village in obedience to his Majesty’s edict that threatened such 
severities against the unfortunate people of my nation, as thou 
hast heard.” 

Sancho complied, and Eicote having spoken to the other 
pilgrims they withdrew to the grove they saw, turning a con- 
siderable distance out of the road. They threw down their 
staves, took off their pilgrim’s cloaks and remained in their 
under-clothing ; they were all good-looking young fellows, ex- 
cept Eicote, who was a man somewhat advanced in years. 
They carried alforjas all of them, and all apparently well 
filled, at least with things provocative of thirst, such as would 
summon it from two leagues off. They stretched themselves 
on the ground, and making a tablecloth of the grass they spread 
upon it bread, salt, knives, walnuts, scraps of cheese, and well- 
picked ham-bones which if they were past gnawing were not 
past sucking. They also put down a black dainty called, they 
say, caviar, and made of the eggs of fish, a great thirst-wakener. 
Nor was there any lack of olives, dry, it is true, and without 
any seasoning, but for all that toothsome and pleasant. But 
what made the best show in the field of the banquet was half 
a dozen botas of wine, for each of them produced his own from 
his alforjas ; even the good Eicote, who from a Morisco had 
transformed himself into a German or Dutchman, took out his, 
which in size might have vied with the five others. They then 
began to eat with very great relish and very leisurely, making 
■'he most of each morsel — very small ones of everything — 


CHAPTER LIV. 


873 


they took up on the point of the knife ; and then all at the same 
moment raised their arms and botas aloft, the mouths pressed 
to their mouths, and all eyes fixed on heaven just as if they 
were taking aim at it ; and in this attitude they remained ever 
so long, wagging their heads from side to side as if in acknowl- 
edgment of the pleasure they were enjoying while they decanted 
the bowels of the bottles into their own stomachs. 

Sancho beheld all, and nothing gave him pain ; ” i so far 
from that, acting on the proverb he knew so well, when thou 
art at E,ome do as thou seest,” ^ he asked Kicote for his bota 
and took aim like the rest of them, and with not less enjoy- 
ment. Four times did the botas bear being uplifted, but the 
fifth it was all in vain, for they were dryer and more sapless 
than a rush by that time, which made the jollity that had be^n 
kept up so far begki to fiag. 

Every now and then some one of them would grasp Sancho’s 
right hand in his own saying, Espanol y Tudesqui tuto uno 
bon compano ; ” and Sancho would answer, ‘‘ Bon compano, jura 
Di,’’ and then go off into a fit of laughter that lasted an hour, 
without a thought for the moment of anything that had be- 
fallen him in his government ; for cares have very little sway 
over us while we are eating and drinking. At length, the wine 
having come to an end with them, drowsiness began to come 
over them, and they dropped asleep on their very table and 
table-cloth. Ricote and Sancho alone remained awake, for they 
had eaten more and drunk less, and Kicote drawing Sancho 
aside, they seated themselves at the foot of a beech, leaving 
the pilgrims buried in sweet sleep ; and without once falling 
into his own Morisco tongue Kicote spoke as follows in pure 
Castilian : 

Thou knowest well, neighbor and friend Sancho Panza, how 
the proclamation or edict his Majesty commanded to be issued 
against those of my nation filled us all with terror and dismay ; ® 

* A line from the ballad of Mira Nero de Tarpeya^ Duran No. 571. 

2 Prov. 208. 

® The edict Kicote refers to was that published September 22, 1609, com- 
manding the Moriscoes under pain of death to hold themselves in readiness 
to embark for Africa at three days’ notice. The date is significant. It was 
six months after the signature of the treaty that virtually recognized the 
independence of the United Provinces, and acknowledged the defeat of the 
Church in the struggle for domination in the Netherlands. The victory 
of the Netherlanders, in fact, recoiled upon the unhappy Moriscoes, The 
anti-Morisco movement had been hitherto confined to Valencia and the 
Valencia!! clergy; but now the priesthood throughout Spain, in their fury 


874 


DON QUIXOTE. 


me at least it did, insomuch that I think before the time granted 
us for quitting Spain was out, the full force of the penalty had 
already fallen upon me and upon my children. I decided, then, 
and I think wisely (just like one who knows that at a certain 
date the house he lives in will be taken from him, and looks out 
beforehand for another to change into), 1 decided, I say, to 
leave the town myself, alone and without my family, and go to 
seek out some place to remove them to comfortably and not in 
the hurried way in which the others took their departure ; for 
I saw very plainly, and so did all the older men among us, that 
the proclamations were not mere threats, as some said, but pos- 
itive enactments which would be enforced at the appointed time ; 
and what made me believe this was w^hat I knew of the base 
and extravagant designs which our people harbored, designs of 
such a nature that I think it was a divine inspiration that 
moved his Majesty to carry out a resolution so spirited ; not that 

at the escape of the northern heretics, took it up and turned it into a pop- 
ular agitation. Cervantes quoted here some of the stock arguments of the 
agitators, but in the novel of the Colloquy of the Dogs he gives them in 
fuller detail. The Church in this instance adopted the usual tactics of the 
demagogue, and appealed to the stupidity and the cupidity of the masses, 
frightening them with the bugbear of another Mohammedan invasion aided 
by these aliens, and pointing out that the Morisco by his industry, frugal- 
ity, skill, and business-like qualities was everywhere taking the bread out 
of the mouth of the Christian Spaniard. The real offence of the Moris- 
coes was, of course, that, in spite of all the Church could do, from bap- 
tism to burning, they still remained unsatisfactory Christians. As Cer- 
vantes with exquisite naivete says in the Colloquy^ It would be a miracle 
to find one of them that has a genuine belief in the holy Christian faith.” 
Very likely. It can hardly have gained fervor from the fires of the In- 
quisition with Moriscoes who remembered their own old faith that for 
seven centuries had respected Church and Synagogue, and left Jew and 
Christian to worship in peace. The king, a kind-hearted man, bigot afe he 
was, shrank from the wholesale cruelty of the Church proposals, but he 
was frightened into yielding. For Lerma resistance would have been an 
immediate fall from power. The opposition of the nobles was futile ; the 
men who had made Spain a great nation were powerless now against the 
combined forces of stupidity and fanaticism that were undoing their work. 
The sufferings of the wretched Moriscoes, the massacres of those that re- 
sisted, the miseries of those that submitted, are a tale that has been told 
often enough ; and as for the effects on Spain, to quote the Avords of Don 
Florencio Janer, who has written one of the ablest and most impartial 
books on the subject, it may be said that from an Arabia Felix it was 
converted into an Arabia Deserta.” A sad story ; and hardly less sad to 
find noble Cervantes lifting up his voice on the side of the silliest agita- 
tion, the stupidest policy, and the cruellest measure that ever history has 
had occasion to record. [The translator evidently mistakes Cervantes’s 
irony for serious justification. — Am. Ed.'\ 


CHAPTER LIV. 


376 


we were all guilty, for some there were true and steadfast Chris* 
tians ; but they were so few that they could make no head 
against those who were not ; and it was not prudent to cherish 
a viper in the bosom by having enemies in the house. In short 
it was with just cause that we were visited with the penalty of 
banishment, a mild and lenient one in the eyes of some, but to 
us the most terrible that could be inflicted upon us. Where- 
ever we are we weep for Spain ; for after all we were born there 
and it is our natural fatherland. Nowhere do we And the re- 
ception our unhappy condition needs ; and in Barbary and all 
the parts of Africa where we counted upon being received, suc- 
cored, and welcomed, it is there they insult and ill-treat us. 
We knew not our good fortune until we lost it ; * and such is the 
longing we almost all of us have to return to Spain, that most 
of those who like myself know the language, and there are many 
who do, come back to it and leave their wives and children for- 
saken yonder, so great is their love for it ; ^ and now I know by 
experience the meaning of the saying, sweet is the love of one’s 
country. 

“ I left our village, as I said, and went to France, but though 
they gave us a kind reception there I was anxious to see all I 
eould. I crossed into Italy, and reached Germany, and there 
it seemed to me we might live with more freedom, as the in- 
habitants do not pay any attention to trifling points ; every one 
lives as he likes, for in most parts they enjoy liberty of con- 
science. I took a house in a town near Augsburg, and then 
joined these pilgrims, who are in the habit of coming to Spain 
in great numbers every year to visit the shrines there, which 
they look upon as their Indies and a sure and certain source of 
gain. They travel nearly all over it, and there is no town out 
of which they do not go full up of meat and drink, as the say- 
ing is, and with a real, at least, in money, and they come off 
at the end of their travels with more than a hundred crowns 
saved, which, changed into gold, they smuggle out of the king- 
dom either in the hollow of their staves or in the patches of 
their pilgrim’s cloaks or by some device of their own, and carry 
to their own country in spite of the guards at the posts and 
passes where they are searched. Now my purpose is, Sancho, 
to carry away the treasure that I left buried, which, as it is out- 
side the town, I shall be able to do without risk, and to write, 

* Prov. 22, 

’ This is historically true ; in 1613 it was found necessary to order a 
second expulsion of returned Moriscoes. 


376 


DON QUIXOTE, 


or cross over from Valencia, to my daughter and wife, who 1 
know are at Algiers, and find some means of bringing them to 
some French port and thence to Germany, there to await what 
it may be God's will to do with us ; for, after all, Sancho, I 
know well that Eicota my daughter and Francisca Eicota my 
wife are Catholic Christians, and though I am not so much so, 
still I am more of a Christian than a Moor, and it is always my 
prayer to God that he will open the eyes of my understanding 
and show me how I am to serve him ; but what amazes me and 
I cannot understand is why my wife and daughter should have 
gone to Barbary rather than to France, where they could live 
as Christians.” 

To this Sancho replied, Eemember, Eicote, that may not 
have been open to them, for Juan Tiopieyo thy wife’s brother 
took them, and being a true Moor he went where he could go 
most easily ; and another thing I can tell thee, it is my belief 
thou art going in vain to look for what thou hast left buried, 
for we heard they took from thy brother-in-law and thy wife a 
great quantity of pearls and money in gold which they brought 
to be passed.” ^ 

That may be,” said Eicote ; but I know they did not 
touch my hoard, for I did not tell them where it was, for fear 
of accidents ; and so, if thou wilt come with me, Sancho, and 
help me to take it away and conceal it, I will give thee two 
hundred crowns wherewith thou mayest relieve thy necessities, 
and, as thou knowest, I know they are many.” 

I would do it,” said Sancho ; but I am not at all covetous, 
for I gave up an office this morning in which, if I was, I might 
have made the walls of my house of gold and dined off silver 
plates before six months were over ; and so for this reason, and 
because I feel I would be guilty of treason to my king if I 
helped his enemies, I would not go with thee if instead of 
promising me two hundred crowns thou wert to give me four 
hundred here in hand.” 

“ And what office is this thou hast given up, Sancho ? ” 
asked Eicote. 

I have given up being governor of an island,” said Sancho, 

and such a one, faith, as you won’t find the like of easily.” 

And where is this island ? ” said Eicote. 

* At first a certain amount of property was permitted to be carried 
away, but ultimately the deported Moriscoes were not allowed to carry 
anything with them. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


377 


Where ? ’’ said Sancho ; two leagues from here, and it is 
called the island of Barataria/’ 

‘‘Nonsense! Sancho,” said Bioote; “islands are away out 
in the sea ; there are no islands on the mainland.” 

“ What ? No islands 1 ” said Sancho ; “ I tell thee, friend 
Bicote, I left it this morning, and yesterday I was governing 
there as I pleased like a Sagittarius ; ^ but for all that I gave 
it up, for it seemed to me a dangerous office, a governor’s.” 

“ And what hast thou gained by the government ? ” asked 
Bicote. 

“ I have gained,” said Sancho, “ the knowledge that I am 
no good for governing, unless it is a drove of cattle, and that 
the riches that are to be got by these governments are got at 
the cost of one’s rest and sleep, ay and even one’s food ; for in 
islands the governors must eat little, especially if they have 
doctors to look after their health.” 

“ I don’t understand thee, Sancho,” said Bicote ; “ but it 
seems to me all nonsense thou art talking. Who would give 
thee islands to govern ? Is there any scarcity in the world of 
cleverer men than thou art for governors ? Hold thy peace, 
Sancho, and come back to thy senses, and consider whether 
thou wilt come with me as I said to help me to take away the 
treasure I left buried (for indeed it may be called a treasure, 
it is so large), and I will give thee wherewithal to keep thee, 
as I told thee.” 

“ And I have told thee already, Bicote, that I will not,” said 
Sancho ; “ let it content thee that by me thou shalt not be 
betrayed, and go thy way in God’s name and let me go mine ; 
for I know that well-gotten gain may be lost, but ill-gotten 
gain is lost, itself and its owner likewise.”^ 

“ I will not press thee, Sancho,” said Bicote; “but tell me, 
wert thou in our village when my wife and daughter and 
brother-in-law left it ? ” 

“ I was so,” said Sancho ; “ and I can tell thee thy daughter, 
left it looking so lovely that all the village turned out to see 
her, and everybody said she was the fairest creature in the 
world. She wept as she went, and embraced all her friends 
and acquaintances and those who came out to see her, and she 
begged them all to commend her to God and Our Lady his 

* Sancho’s meaning is not very clear here. Sagittarius in the Germania 
slang is one who is whipped through the streets. 

2Prov. 24. 


378 


DON QUIXOTE, 


mother, and this in such a touching way that it made me weep 
myself, though I hn not much given to tears commonly ; and, 
faith, many a one would have liked to hide her, or go out and 
carry her off on the road ; but the fear of going against the 
king’s command kept them back. The one who showed him- 
self most moved was Don Pedro Gregorio, the rich young heir 
thou knowest of, and they say he was deep in love with her ; 
and since she left he has not been seen in our village, and we 
all suspect he has gone after her to steal her away, but so far 
nothing has been heard of it.” 

“ I always had a suspicion that gentleman had a passion for 
my daughter,” said Picote ; but as I felt sure of my Eicota’s 
virtue it gave me no uneasiness to know that he loved her, for 
thou must have heard it said, Sancho, that the Morisco women 
seldom or never engage in amours with the old Christians ; and 
my daughter, who I fancy thought more of being a Christian 
than of love-making, would not trouble herself about the atten- 
tions of this heir.” 

God grant it,” said Sancho, “ for it would be a bad business 
for both of them ; but now let me be off, friend Kicote, for I 
want to reach where my master Don Quixote is to-night.” 

God be with thee, brother Sancho,” said Eicote ; “ my com- 
rades are beginning to stir, and it is time, too, for us to con- 
tinue our journey ; ” and then they both embraced, and Sancho 
mounted Dapple, and Eicote leant upon his staff, and so they 
parted. 


CHAPTEE LV. 

OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS 
THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED. 

The length of time he delayed with Eicote prevented 
Sancho from reaching the duke’s castle that day, though he 
was within half a league of it when night, somewhat dark and 
cloudy, overtook him. This, however, as it was summer time, 
did not give him much uneasiness, and he turned aside out of 
the road intending to wait for morning ; but his ill-luck and 
hard fate so willed it that as he was searching about for a 
place to make himself as comfortable as possible, he and 


CHAPTER LV. 


379 


Dapple fell into a deep dark hole that lay among some Yevy 
old buildings. As he fell he commended himself with all his 
heart to God, fancying he was not going to stop until he 
reached the depths of the bottomless pit ; but it did not turn 
out so, for at little more than thrice a man’s height Dapple 
touched bottom, and he found himself sitting on him without 
having received any hurt or damage whatever. He felt him- 
self all over and held his breath to try whether he was quite 
sound or had a hole made in him anywhere, and finding him- 
self all right and whole and in perfect health he was profuse 
in his thanks to God our Lord for the mercy that had been 
shown him, for he thought surely he had been broken into a 
thousand pieces. He also felt along the sides of the pit with 
his hands to see if it were possible to get out of it without 
help, but he found they were quite smooth and afforded no hold 
anywhere, at which he was greatly distressed, especially when 
he heard how pathetically and dolefully Dapple was bemoan- 
ing himself, and no wonder he complained, nor was it from ill- 
temper, for in truth he was not in a very good case. 

Alas,” said Sancho, what unexpected accidents happen 
at every step to those who live in this miserable world ! Who 
would have said that one who saw himself yesterday sitting 
on a throne, governor of an island, giving orders to his servants 
and his vassals, would see himself to-day buried in a pit 
without a soul to help him, or servant or vassal to come to his 
relief ! Here must we perish with hunger, my ass and myself, 
if indeed we don’t die first, he of his bruises and injuries, and 
I of grief and sorrow. At any rate I shall not be as lucky as 
my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, when he went down into 
the cave of that enchanted Montesinos, where he found people 
to make more of him than if he had been in his own house ; 
for it seems he came in for a table laid out and a bed ready 
made. There he saw fair and pleasant visions, but here I shall 
see, I imagine, toads and adders. Unlucky wretch that I am, 
what an end my follies and fancies have come to ! They ’ll 
take up my bones out of this, when it is Heaven’s will that 
I ’m found, picked clean, white and polished, and my good 
Dapple’s with them, and by that, perhaps, it will be found out 
who we are, at least by such as have heard that Sancho Panza 
never separated from his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza 
Unlucky wretches, I say again, that our hard fate should not 
let us die in our own country and among our own peoplej 


380 


DON QUIXOTE. 


where if there was no help for our misfortune, at any rate 
there would be some one to grieve for it and to close our eyes 
as we passed away ! 0 comrade and friend, how ill have I 

repaid thy faithful services ! Forgive me, and entreat Fortune, 
as well as thou canst, to deliver us out of this miserable strait 
we are both in ; and I promise to put a crown of laurel on 
thy head, and make thee look like a poet laureate, and give 
thee double feeds/^ 

In this strain did Sancho bewail himself, and his ass 
listened to him, but answered him never a word, such was the 
distress and anguish the poor beast found himself in. At 
length, after a night spent in bitter meanings and lamentations, 
day came, and by its light Sancho perceived that it was wholly 
impossible to escape out of that pit without help, and he fell 
to bemoaning his fate and uttering loud shouts to find out if 
there was any one within hearing ; but all his shouting was 
only crying in the wilderness, for there was not a soul any- 
where in the neighborhood to hear him, and then at last he 
gave himself up for dead. Dapple was lying on his back, and 
Sancho helped him to his feet, which he was scarcely able to 
keep; and then taking a piece of bread out of his alforjas 
which had shared their fortunes in the fall, he gave it to the 
ass, to whom it was not unwelcome, saying to him as if he 
understood him, With bread all sorrows are less.’’ ^ 

And now he perceived on one side of the pit a hole large 
enough to admit a person if he stooped and squeezed himself 
into a small compass. Sancho made for it, and entered it by 
creeping, and found it wide and spacious on the inside, which 
he was able to see as a ray of sunlight that penetrated what 
might be called the roof showed it all plainly. He observed, 
too, that it opened and widened out into another spacious 
cavity ; seeing which he made his way back to where the ass 
was, and with a stone began to pick away the clay from the 
hole until in a short time he had made room for the beast to 
pass easily, and this accomplished, taking him by the halter, 
he proceeded to traverse the cavern to see if there was any 
outlet at the other end. He advanced, sometimes in the dark, 
sometimes with light, but never without fear ; God Almighty 
help me ! ” said he to himself ; this that is a misadventure 
to me would make a good adventure for my master Don 
Quixote. He would have been sure to take these depths and 

■‘Prov. 173. 


CHAPTER LV. 


381 


dungeons for flowery gardens or the palaces of Galiana/ and 
would have counted upon issuing out of this darkness and im- 
prisonment into some blooming meadow ; but I, unlucky that 
I am, hopeless and spiritless, expect at every step another pit 
deeper than the first to open under my feet and swallow me 
up for good ; ‘ welcome evil, if thou comest alone/ ” ^ 

In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself 
to have travelled rather more than half a league, when at 
last he perceived a dim light that looked like daylight and 
found its way in on one side, showing that this road, which 
appeared to him the road to the other world, led to some 
opening. 

Here Cid Hamet leaves him, and returns to Don Quixote, 
who in high spirits and satisfaction was looking forward to the 
day fixed for the battle he was to fight with him who had 
robbed Dona Rodriguez’s daughter of her honor, for whom he 
hoped to obtain satisfaction for the wrong and injury shame- 
fully done to her. It came to pass, then, that having sallied 
forth one morning to practise and exercise himself in what he 
would have to do in the encounter he expected to find himself 
engaged in the next day, as he was putting Rocinante through 
his paces or pressing him to the charge, he brought his feet so 
close to a pit that but for reining him in tightly it would have 
been impossible for him to avoid falling into it. He pulled 
him up, however, without a fall, and coming a little closer ex- 
amined the hole without dismounting ; but as he was looking 
at it he heard loud cries proceeding from it, and by listening 
attentively was able to make out that he who uttered them 
was saying, “ Ho, above there ! is there any Christian that 
hears me, or any charitable gentleman that will take pity on a 
sinner buried alive, or an unfortunate disgoverned governor ? ” 

It struck Don Quixote that it was the voice of Sancho Panza 
he heard, whereat he was taken aback and amazed, and raising 
his own voice as much as he could, he cried out, Who is below 
there ? Who is that complaining ? ” 

Who should be here, or who should complain,” was the 
answer, but the forlorn Sancho Panza, for his sins and for 
his ill-luck governor of the island of Barataria, squire that was 
to the famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha ? ” 

* A Moorish princess, the remains of whose palace may still be seen, so 
the Toledans say, near the bridge of Alcantara at Toledo. 

» Prov. 131. 


382 


DON QUIXOTE. 


When Don Quixote heard this his amazement was redoubled 
and his perturbation grew greater than ever, for it suggested 
itself to his mind that Sancho must be dead, and that his soul 
was in torment down there ; and carried away by this idea he 
exclaimed, I conjure thee by everything that as a Catholic 
Christian I can conjure thee by, tell me who thou art ; and if 
thou art a soul in torment, tell me what thou wouldst have me 
do for thee ; for as my profession is to give aid and succor to 
those that need it in this world, it will also extend to aiding 
and succoring the distressed of the other, who cannot help 
themselves/^ 

‘‘In that case,^’ answered the voice, “your worship who 
speaks to me must be my master Don Quixote of La Mancha ; 
nay, from the tone of the voice it is plain it can be nobody 
else.” 

“ Don Quixote I am,” replied Don Quixote, “ he whose pro- 
fession it is to aid and succor the living and the dead in their 
necessities ; wherefore tell me who thou art, for thou art keeping 
me in suspense ; because, if thou art my squire Sancho Panza, 
and art dead, since the devils have not carried thee off, and 
thou art by God’s mercy in purgatory, our holy mother the 
Eoman Catholic Church has intercessory means sufficient to 
release thee from the pains thou art in ; and I for my part 
will plead with her to that end, so far as my substance will 
go; without further delay, therefore, declare thyself, and tell 
me who thou art.” 

“ By all that ’s good,” was the answer, “ and by the birth of 
whomsoever your worship chooses, I swear, Senor Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, that I am your squire Sancho Panza, and that 
I have never died all my life ; but that, having given up my 
government for reasons that would require more time to 
explain, I fell last night into this pit where I am now, and 
Dapple is witness and won’t let me lie, for more by token he 
is here with me.” 

Nor was this all ; one would have fancied the ass understood 
what Sancho said, because that moment he began to bray so 
loudly that the whole cave rang again. 

“ Famous testimony ! ” exclaimed Don Quixote ; “ I know 
that bray as well as if I was its mother, and thy voice, too, my 
Sancho. Wait while I go to the duke’s castle, which is close 
by, and I will bring some one to take thee out of this pit into 
which thy sins no doubt have brought thee.” 


CHAPTER LV. 


S83 


Go, your worship,” said Sancho, “ and come back quick for 
God’s sake ; for I cannot bear being buried alive here any 
longer, and I ’m dying of fear.” 

Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the castle to tell the 
duke and duchess what had happened to Sancho, and they were 
not a little astonished at it, although they could easily understand 
his having fallen, from the confirmatory circumstance of the 
cave which had been in existence there from time immemorial ; 
but they could not imagine how he had quitted the government 
without their receiving any intimation of his coming. To be 
brief, they fetched ropes and tackle, as the saying is, and by 
dint of many hands and much labor they drew up Dapple and 
Sancho Panza out of the darkness into the light of day. A 
student who saw him remarked, “ That ’s the way all bad gov- 
ernors should come out of their governments, as this sinner 
comes out of the depths of the pit, dead with hunger, pale, and 
I suppose without a farthing.” 

Sancho overheard him and said, It is eight or ten days, 
brother growler, since I entered upon the government of the 
island they gave me, and all that time I never had a bellyful 
of victuals, no not for an hour ; doctors persecuted me and 
enemies crushed my 'bones; nor had I any opportunity of 
taking bribes or levying taxes ; and if that be the case, as 
it is, I don’t deserve, I think, to come out in this fashion, but 
^ man proposes and God disposes ; ’ ^ and God knows what is 
best, and what suits each one best ; and ‘ as the occasion, so 
the behavior ; ’ ^ and < let nobody say I won’t drink of this 
water ; ^ i 'where one thinks there are flitches, there are 

no pegs ; ’ ^ God knows my meaning and that ’s enongh ; I say 
no more, though I could.” 

Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote, or there will never be an end of it ; keep 
a safe conscience and let them say what they like ; for trying 
to stop slanderers’ tongues is like trying to put gates to the 
open plain.® If a governor comes out of his government rich, 
they say he has been a thief ; and if he comes out poor, that 
he has been a noodle and a blockhead.” 

They ’ll be pretty sure this time,” said Sancho, to set me 
down for a fool rather than a thief.” 

Thus talking, and surrounded by boys and a crowd of 

* Prov. 89. * Prov. 224. ® Prov. 5. 

< Prov. 226. ® Prov. 195. 


384 


DON QUIXOTE. 


people, they reached the castle, where in one of the corridors 
the duke and duchess stood waiting for them; but Sancho 
would not go up to see the duke until he had first put up 
Dapple in the stable, for he said he had passed a very bad 
night in his last quarters ; then he went upstairs to see his 
lord and lady, and kneeling before them he said, Because it 
was your highnesses’ pleasure, not because of any desert of 
my own, I went to govern your island of Barataria, which I 
entered naked, ^ and naked I find myself ; I neither lose nor 
gain.’ ^ Whether I have governed well or ill, I have had wit- 
nesses who will say what they think fit. I have answered 
questions, I have decided causes, and always dying of hunger, 
for Dr. Pedro Becio of Tirteafuera, the islandish and governor- 
ish doctor, would have it so. Enemies attacked us by night and 
put us in a great quandary, but the people of the island say 
they came off safe and victorious by the might of my arm ; 
and may God give them as much health as there ’s truth in 
what they say. In short, during that time I have weighed the 
cares and responsibilities governing brings with it, and by my 
reckoning I find my shoulders can’t bear them, nor are they a 
load for my loins or arrows for my quiver ; and so, before the 
government threw me over, I preferred to throw the govern- 
ment over ; and yesterday morning I left the island as I found 
it, with the same streets, houses, and roofs it had when I 
entered it. I asked no loan of anybody, nor did I try to fill 
my pocket ; and though I meant to make some useful laws, I 
made hardly any, as I was afraid they would not be kept ; for 
in that case it comes to the same thing to make them or not to 
make them. I quitted the island, as I said, without any 
escort except my ass ; I fell into a pit, I pushed on through 
it, until this morning by the light of the sun I saw an outlet, 
but not so easy a one but that, had not Heaven sent me my 
master Don Quixote, I ’d have stayed there till the end of the 
world. So now, my lord and lady duke and duchess, here is 
your governor Sancho Panza, who in the bare ten days he has 
held the government has come by the knowledge that he would 
not give anything to be governor, not to say of an island, but 
of the whole world ; and that point being settled, kissing 
your worships’ feet, and imitating the game of the boys when 
they say ^ leap thou, and give me one,’ ^ I take a leap out of 
the government and pass into the service of my master Dou 
* Prov. 73. ® An allusion to a kind of game of leap-frog 


CHAPTER LVL 


385 


Quixote ; for after all, though in it I eat my bread in fear and 
trembling, at any rate I take my fill ; and for my part, so long 
as I ’m full, it ’s all alike to me whether it ’s with carrots or 
with partridges/’ 

Here Sancho brought his long speech to an end, Don Quixote 
having been the whole time in dread of his uttering a host, of 
absurdities ; and when he found him leave off with so few, he 
thanked Heaven in his heart. The duke embraced Sancho and 
told him he was heartily sorry he had given up the government 
so soon, but that he would see that he was provided with some 
other post on his estate less onerous and more profitable. The 
duchess also embraced him, and gave orders that he should be 
taken good care of, as it was plain to see he had been badly 
treated and worse bruised. 


CHAPTER LVL 

OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK 
PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE 
LACKEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF THE 
DUENNA DONA RODRIGUEZ. 

The duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that 
had been played upon Sancho Panza in giving him the govern- 
ment; especially as their majordomo returned the same day, 
and gave them a minute account of almost every word and 
deed that Sancho uttered or did during the time ; and to 
wind up with eloquently described to them the attack upon 
the island and Sancho’s fright and departure, with which they 
were not a little amused. After this the history goes on to 
say that the day fixed for the battle arrived, and that the 
duke, after having repeatedly instructed his lackey Tosilos 
how to deal with Don Quixote so as to vanquish him without 
killing or wounding him, gave orders to have the heads re- 
moved from the lances, telling Don Quixote that Christian 
charity, on which he plumed himself, could not suffer the 
battle to be fought with so much risk and danger to life ; and 
that he must be content with the offer of a battle-field on his 
territory (though that was against the decree of the holy 
council, which prohibits all challenges of the sort) and not 
VoL. ir. — 25 


386 


DON QUIXOTE. 


push such an arduous venture to its extreme limits. Don 
Quixote bade his excellence arrange all matters connected with 
the alfair as he pleased, as on his part he would obey him in 
everything. The dread day, then, having arrived, and the 
duke having ordered a spacious stand to be erected facing the 
court of the castle for the judges of the field and the appellant 
duennas, mother and daughter, vast crowds fiocked from all 
the villages and hamlets of the neighborhood to see the novel 
spectacle of the battle ; nobody, dead or alive, in those parts 
having ever seen or heard of such a one. 

The first person to enter the field and the lists was the 
master of the ceremonies, who surveyed and paced the whole 
ground to see that there was nothing unfair and nothing con- 
cealed to make the combatants stumble or fall ; then the 
duennas entered and seated themselves, enveloped in mantles 
covering their eyes, nay even their bosoms, and displaying no 
slight emotion as Don Quixote appeared in the lists. Shortly 
afterwards, accompanied by several trumpets and mounted on 
a powerful steed that threatened to crush the whole place, the 
great lackey Tosilos made his appearance on one side of the 
courtyard with his visor down and stiffly cased in a suit of 
stout shining armor. The horse was a manifest Frieslander, 
broad-backed and fiea-bitten, and with half a hundred of wool 
hanging to each of his fetlocks. The gallant combatant came 
well primed by his master the duke as to how he was to bear 
himself against the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha ; being 
warned that he must on no account slay him, but strive to 
shirk the first encounter so as to avoid the risk of killing him, 
as he was sure to do if he met him full tilt. He crossed the 
courtyard at a walk, and coming to where the duennas were 
placed stopped to look at her who demanded him for a hus- 
band ; the marshal of the field summoned Don Quixote, who 
had already presented himself in the courtyard, and standing 
by the side of Tosilos he addressed the duennas, and asked 
them if they consented that Don Quixote of La Mancha should 
do battle for their right. They said they did, and that what- 
ever he should do in that behalf they declared rightly done, 
final and valid. By this time the duke and duchess had taken 
their places in a gallery commanding the enclosure, which was 
filled to overflowing with a multitude of people eager to see 
this perilous and unparalleled encounter. The conditions of 
the combat were that if Don Quixote proved the victor his 


CHAPTER LVL 


387 


antagonist was to marry the daughter of Dona Rodriguez ; 
but if he should be vanquished his opponent was released from 
the promise that was claimed against him and from all obli- 
gations to give satisfaction. The master of the ceremonies 
apportioned the sun to them/ and stationed them, each on the 
spot where he was to stand. The drums beat, the sound of 
the trumpets filled the air, the earth trembled under foot, the 
hearts of the gazing crowd were full of anxiety, some hoping 
for a happy issue, some apprehensive of an untoward ending 
to the affair, and lastly, Don Quixote, commending himself 
with all his heart to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea 
del Toboso, stood waiting for them to give the necessary 
signal for the onset. Our lackey, however, was thinking of 
something very different ; he only thought of what I am now 
going to mention. 

It seems that as he stood contemplating his enemy she 
struck him as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen all 
his life ; and the little blind boy whom in our streets they 
commonly call Love had no mind to let slip the chance of 
triumphing over a lackey heart, and adding it to the list of his 
trophies ; and so, stealing gently upon him unseen, he drove a 
dart two yards long into the poor lackey’s left side and pierced 
his heart through and through ; which he was able to do quite 
at his ease, for Love is invisible, and comes in and goes out as 
he likes, without any one calling him to account for what he 
does. Well then, when they gave the signal for the onset our 
lackey was in an ecstasy, musing upon the beauty of her 
whom he had already made mistress of his liberty, and so he 
paid no attention to the sound of the trumpet, unlike Don 
Quixote, who was off the instant he heard it, and, at the 
highest speed Rocinante was capable of, set out to meet his 
enemy, his good squire Sancho shouting lustily as he saw him 
start, God guide thee, cream and flower of knights-errant ! 
God give thee the victory, for thou hast the right on thy side ! ” 

But though Tosilos saw Don Quixote coming at him he never 
stirred a step from the spot where he was posted ; and instead 
of doing so called loudly to the marshal of the field, to whom 
when he came up to see what he wanted he said, Senor, is 
not this battle to decide whether I marry or do not marry that 
lady ? ” Just so,” was the answer. “ Well then,” said the 
lackey,' I feel qualms of conscience, and I should lay a heavy 
* See Note, chap vi., page 37. 


388 


DON QUIXOTE, 


burden upon it if I were to proceed any further with the com- 
bat ; I therefore declare that I yield myself vanquished, and 
that I am willing to marry the lady at once.’’ 

The marshal of the field was lost in astonishment at the 
words of Tosilos ; and as he was one of those who were privy 
to the arrangement of the affair he knew not what to say in 
reply. Don Quixote pulled up in mid career when he saw 
that his enemy was not coming on to the attack. The duke 
could not make out the reason why the battle did not go on ; 
but the marshal of the field hastened to him to let him know 
what Tosilos said, and he was amazed and extremely angry at 
it. In the meantime Tosilos advanced to where Doiia Eodri- 
guez sat and said in a loud voice, Senora, I am willing to 
marry your daughter, and I have no wish to obtain by strife 
and %hting what I can obtain in peace and without any risk 
to my life.” 

The valiant Don Quixote heard him, and said, ^^As that is 
the case I am released and absolved from my promise; let 
them marry by all means, and as God our Lord has given her, 
may Saint Peter add his blessing.” 

The duke had now descended to the courtyard of the castle, 
and going up to Tosilos he said to him, Is it true, sir knight, 
that you yield yourself vanquished, and that moved by scru- 
ples of conscience you wish to marry this damsel ? ” 

It is, senor,” replied Tosilos. 

And he does well,” said Sancho, for what thou hast to give 
to the mouse, give to the cat, and it will save thee all trouble.” ^ 

Tosilos meanwhile was trying to unlace his helmet, and he 
begged them to come to his help at once, as his power of breath- 
ing was failing him, and he could not remain so long shut up 
in that confined space. They removed it in all haste, and his 
lackey features were revealed to public gaze. At this sight 
Dona Rodriguez and her daughter raised a mighty outcry, ex- 
claiming, “ This is a trick ! This is a trick ! They have put 
Tosilos, my lord the duke’s lackey, upon us in place of the real 
husband. The justice of God and the king against such trick- 
ery, not to say roguery ! ” 

“ Do not distress yourselves, ladies,” said Don Quixote, for 
this is no trickery or roguery ; or if it is, it is not the duke who 
is at the bottom of it, but those wicked enchanters who perse- 
cute me, and who, jealous of my reaping the glory of this vic- 
^Prov. 151. 


CHAPTER LVL 


889 


tory, have turned your husband’s features into those of this per- 
son, who you say is a lackey of the duke’s ; take my advice, and 
notwithstanding the malice of my enemies marry him, for be- 
yond a doubt he is the very one you wish to get for a husband.” 

When the duke heard this all his anger was near vanishing 
in a fit of laughter, and he said, The things that happen to 
Senor Don Quixote are so extraordinary that I am ready to be- 
lieve this lackey of mine is not one ; but let us adopt this plan 
and device ; let us put off the marriage for, say, a fortnight, 
and let us keep this person about whom we are uncertain in 
close confinement, and perhaps in the course of that time he 
may return to his original shape; for the spite which the en- 
chanters entertain against Senor Don Quixote cannot last so 
long, especially as it is of so little advantage to them to prac- 
tise these deceptions and transformations.” 

“ Oh, senor,” said Sancho, those scoundrels are well used to 
changing whatever concerns my master from one thing into 
another. A knight that he overcame some time back, called 
the Knight of the Mirrors, they turned into the shape of the 
bachelor Samson Carrasco of our town and a great friend of 
ours ; and my lady Dulcinea del Toboso they have turned into a 
common country wench ; so I suspect this lackey will have to 
live and die a lackey all the days of his life.” 

Here the Eodriguez’s daughter exclaimed, “ Let him be who 
he may, this man that claims me for a wife ; I am thankful to 
him for the same, for I had rather be the lawful wife of a lackey 
than the cheated mistress of a gentleman ; though he who played 
me false is nothing of the kind.” 

To be brief, all the talk and all that had happened ended in 
Tosilos being shut up until it was seen how his transformation 
turned out. All hailed Don Quixote as victor, but the greater 
number were vexed and disappointed at finding that the com- 
batants they had been so anxiously waiting for had not battered 
one another to pieces, just as the boys are disappointed when 
the man they are waiting to see hanged does not come out, be- 
cause the prosecution or the court has pardoned him. The 
people dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the cas- 
tle, they locked up Tosilos, Dona Kodriguez and her daughter 
remained perfectly contented when they saw that any way the 
affair must end in marriage, and Tosilos wanted nothing else. 


390 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

WHICH TREATS OP HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE 
DUKE, AXD OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND 
IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESSES DAMSELS. 

Don Quixote now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness 
as he was leading in the castle ; for he fancied that he was mak- 
ing himself sorely missed by suffering himself to remain shut 
up and inactive amid the countless luxuries and enjoyments his 
hosts lavished upon him as a knight-errant ; and he felt too that 
he would have to render a strict account to Heaven of that in- 
dolence and seclusion ; and so one day he asked the duke and 
duchess to grant him permission to take his departure. They 
gave it, showing at the same time that they were very sorry he 
was leaving them. The duchess gave his wife’s letters to San- 
cho Panza, who shed tears over them, saying, “ Who would 
have thought that such grand hopes as the news of my govern- 
ment bred in my wife Teresa Panza’s breast would end in my 
going back now to the vagabond adventures of my master Don 
Quixote of La Mancha ? Still I ’m glad to see my Teresa be- 
haved as she ought in sending the acorns, for if she had not sent 
them I should have been sorry, and she ’d have shown herself 
ungrateful. It is a comfort to me that they can’t call that pres- 
ent a bribe ; for I had got the government already when she sent 
them, and it ’s but reasonable that those who have had a good 
turn done them should show their gratitude, if it ’s only with a 
trifle. After all I went into the government naked, and I come 
out of it naked ; so I can say with a safe conscience — and 
that ’s no small matter — ‘ naked I was born, naked I find 
myself, I neither lose nor gain.’ ” ^ 

Thus did Sancho soliloquize on the day of their departure, 
as Don Quixote, who had the night before taken leave of the 
duke and duchess, coming out made his appearance at an early 
hour in full armor in the courtyard of the castle. The whole 
household of the castle were watching him from the corridors, 
and the duke and duchess, too, came out to see him. Sancho 
was mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas, valise, and prov- 
ender, supremely happy because the duke’s majordomo, the 
same that had acted the part of the Trifaldi, had given him a 

* Prov. 73. 


CHAPTER LVII. 


391 


little purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary 
expenses of the road, but of this Don Quixote knew nothing as 
yet. While all were, as has been said, observing him, suddenly 
from among the duennas and handmaidens of the duchess the 
impudent and witty Altisidora lifted up her voice and said in 
pathetic tones : 

Give ear, cruel knight ; 

Draw rein ; where ’s the need 
Of spurring the flanks 
Of that ill-broken steed ? 

From what art thou flying ? 

No dragon I am. 

Not even a sheep. 

But a tender young lamb. 

Thou hast jilted a maiden 
As fair to behold 
As nymph of Diana 
Or Venus of old. 

Bireno,^ ^neas, what worse shall I call thee ? 

Barabbas go with thee ! All evil befall thee ! 

In thy claws, ruthless robber, 

Thou bearest away 
The heart of a meek 

Loving maid for thy prey, 

Three kerchiefs thou stealest, 

And garters a pair. 

From logs than the whitest 
Of marble more fair ; 

And the sighs that pursue thee 
Would burn to the ground 
Two thousand Troy Towns, 

If so many were found. 

Bireno, ^neas, what whose shall I call thee ? 

Barabbas go with thee ! All evil befall thee ! 

May no bowels of mercy 
To Sancho be granted, 

* Bireno, Duke of Zealand, who deserted Olympia, daughter of the 
Count of Holland, very much as Theseus deserted Ariadne. Orlando 
Furioso^ Cantos 9 and 10. There is a ballad on the subject, with a re- 
frain which may have suggested that introduced here. 


892 


DON QUIXOTE. 


And thy Dulcinea 

Be left still enchanted, 

May thy falsehood to me 
Find its punishment in her, 

For in my land the just 
Often pays for the sinner.^ 

May thy grandest adventures 
Discomfitures prove, 

May thy joys be all dreams. 

And forgotten thy love. 

Bireno, ^neas, what worse shall I call thee ? 

Barabbas go with thee ! All evil befall thee ! 

May thy name be abhorred 
For thy conduct to ladies, 

From London to England, 

From Seville to Cadiz ; 

May thy cards be unlucky. 

Thy hands Contain ne’er a 
King, seven, dr ace 

When thou playest primera ; 

When thy corns are cut 
May it be to the quick; 

When thy grinders are drawn 
May the roots of them stick. 

Bireno, Eneas', what worse shall I call thee ? 

Barabbas go with thee ! All evil befall thee ! 

All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself 
in the above strain Don Quixote stood staring at her ; and with- 
out uttering a word in reply to her he turiied round to Sancho 
and said, “ Sancho my friend, I conjure thee by the life of thy 
forefathers tell me the truth ; say, hast thou by any chance 
taken the three kerchiefs and the garters this love-sick maid 
speaks of ? 

To this Sancho made answer, The three kerchiefs I have ; 
but the garters, as much as ^ over the hills of Ubeda.’ ” ^ 

The duchess was amazed at Altisidora’s assurance ; she knew 
that she was bold, lively, and impudent, but not so much so as 
to venture to make free in this fashion ; and not being prepared 
for the joke, her astonishment was all the greater. The duke 
1 Prov. 123. * Prov. 34. 


CHAPTER LVIL 


393 


had a mind to keep up the sport, so he said, It does not seem 
to me well done in you, sir knight, that after having received 
the hospitality that has been offered you in this very castle, 
you should have ventured to carry off even three kerchiefs, not 
to say my handmaid’s garters. It shows a bad heart and does 
not tally with your reputation. Restore her garters, or else I 
defy you to mortal combat, for I am not afraid of rascally 
enchanters changing or altering my features as they changed 
his who encountered you into those of my lackey, Tosilos.” 

God forbid,” said Don Quixote, “ that I should draw my 
sword against your illustrious person from which I have re- 
ceived such great favors. The kerchiefs I will restore, as 
Sancho says he has them ; as to the garters that is impossible, 
for I have not got them, neither has he ; and if your hand- 
maiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend upon it she 
will find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke, nor 
do I mean to be so long as I live if God cease not to have me 
in his keeping. This damsel by her own confession speaks as 
one in love, for which I am not to blame, and therefore need 
not ask pardon, either of her or of your, excellence, whom I 
entreat to have a better opinion of me, and once more to give 
me leave to pursue my journey.” 

And may God so prosper it, Senor Don Quixote,” said the 
duchess, ^‘that we may always hear good news of your ex- 
ploits ; God speed you ; for the longer you stay, the more you 
inflame the hearts of the damsels who behold you ; and as for 
this one of mine, I will so chastise her that she will not trans- 
gress again, either with her eyes or with her words.” 

“ One word and no more, 0 valiant Don Quixote, I ask you 
to hear,” said Altisidora, and that is that I beg your pardon 
about the theft of the garters ; and by God and upon my soul 
I have got them on, and I have fallen into the same blunder 
as he did who went looking for his ass being all the while 
mounted on it.” 

Did n’t I say so ? ” said Sancho. I ’m a likely one to 
hide thefts ! Why, if I wanted to deal in them, opportunities 
came ready enough to me in my government.” 

Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and 
duchess and all the bystanders, and wheeling Rocinante round, 
Sancho following him on Dapple, he rode out of the castle, 
shaping his course for Saragossa. 


394 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON 

QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEV GAVE ONE AN- 
OTHER NO BREATHING-TIME. 

When Don Quixote saw himself in the open country, free, 
and relieved from the attentions of Altisidora, he felt at his 
ease, and in fresh spirits to take up the pursuit of chivalry 
once more ; and turning to Sancho he said, Freedom, Sancho, 
is one of the most precious gifts that Heaven has bestowed 
upon men ; no treasures that the earth holds buried or the sea 
conceals can compare with it ; for freedom, as for honor, hfe 
may and should be ventured ; and on the other hand, captivity 
is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man. I say this, 
Sancho, because thou hast seen the good cheer, the abundance 
we have enjoyed in this castle we are leaving ; well then, amid 
those dainty banquets and snow-cooled beverages I felt as 
though I was undergoing the straits of hunger, because I did 
not enjoy them with the same freedom as if they had been 
mine own ; for the sense of being under an obligation to return 
benefits and favors received is a restraint that checks the inde- 
pendence of the spirit. Happy he, to whom Heaven has given 
a piece of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to 
any but Heaven itself ! ” 

“ For all your worship says,” said Sancho, “ it is not becom- 
ing that there should be no thanks on our part for two hundred 
gold crowns that the duke’s majordomo has given me in a 
little purse which I carry next my heart, like a warming 
plaster or comforter, to meet any chance calls ; for we shan’t 
always find castles w'here they ’ll entertain us ; now and then 
we may light upon roadside inns where they ’ll cudgel us.” 

In conversation of this sort the knight and squire errant 
vrere pursuing the journey, when, after they had gone a little 
more than half a league, they perceived some dozen men 
dressed like laborers stretched upon their cloaks on the grass 
of a green meadow eating their dinner. They had beside them 
what seemed to be white sheets concealing some objects under 
them, standing upright or lying flat, and arranged at intervals. 
Don Quixote approached the diners, and, saluting them courte- 
ously first, he asked them what it was those cloths covered. 


CHAPTER LVIII, 


395 


Senor/’ answered one of the party, under these cloths are 
some images carved in relief intended for a retablo ^ we are 
putting up in our village ; we carry them covered up that they 
may not be soiled, and on our shoulders that they may not be 
broken.’’ 

With your good leave,” said Don Quixote, I should like 
to see them ; for images that are carried so carefully no doubo 
must be fine ones.” 

I should think they were ! ” said the other ; let the money 
they cost speak for that ; for as a matter of fact there is not 
one of them that does not stand us in more than fifty ducats ; 
and that your worship may judge ; wait a moment, and you 
shall see with your own eyes ; ” and getting up from his dinner 
he went and uncovered the first image, which proved to be one 
of Saint George on horseback with a dragon writhing at his 
feet and the lance thrust down its throat with all that fierceness 
that is usually depicted. The whole group was one blaze of 
gold, as the saying is. On seeing it Don Quixote said, That 
knight was one of the best knights-errant the army of Heaven 
ever owned ; he was called Don Saint George, and he was 
moreover a defender of maidens. Let us see this next one.” 

The man uncovered it, and it was seen to be that of Saint 
Martin on his horse, dividing his cloak with the beggar. The 
instant Don Quixote saw it he said, “ This knight too was one 
of ti e Christian adventurers, but I believe he was generous 
rather than valiant, as thou mayest perceive, Sancho, by his 
dividing his cloak with the beggar and giving him half of it ; 
no doubt it was winter at the time, for otherwise he would 
have given him the whole of it, so charitable was he.” 

It was not that, most likely,” said Sancho, “ but that he 
held with the proverb that says, ^Tor giving and keeping 
there’s need of brains.’”^ 

Don Quixote laughed, and asked them to take off the next 
cloth, underneath which was seen the image of the patron saint 
of the Spains seated on horseback, his sword stained with blood, 
trampling on Moors and treading heads under foot ; and on 
seeing it Don Quixote exclaimed, Ay, this is a knight, and of 
the squadrons of Christ ! This one is called Don Saint James 
the Moorslayer, one of the bravest saints and knights the 
world ever had or heaven has now.” 

* The elaborate carved work that rises at the back of the altar in Span- 
ish churches. ® Prov. 71. 


396 


DON QUIXOTE. 


They then raised another cloth which it appeared covered 
Saint Paul falling from his horse, with all the details that are 
usually given in representations of his conversion. When Don 
Quixote saw it, rendered in such lifelike style that one would 
have said Christ was speaking and Paul answering, This,’’ 
he said, “ was in his time the greatest enemy that the Church 
of God our Lord had, and the greatest champion it will ever 
have ; a knight-errant in life, a steadfast saint in death, an 
untiring laborer in the Lord’s vineyard, a teacher of the Gen- 
tiles, whose school was heaven, and whose instructor and 
master was Jesus Christ himself.” 

There were no more images, so Don Quixote bade them cover 
them up again, and said to those who had brought them, I 
take it as a happy omen, brothers, to have seen what I have ; 
for these saints and knights were of the same profession as 
i-iyself, which is the calling of arms ; only there is this dilfer- 
ence between them and me, that they were saints, and fought 
with divine weapons, and I am a sinner and fight with human 
ones. They won heaven by force of arms, for Heaven suffereth 
violence ; and I, so far, know not what I have won by dint of 
my sufferings ; but if my Dulcinea del Toboso were to be re- 
leased from hers, perhaps with mended fortunes and a mind 
restored to itself I might direct my steps in a better path than 
I am following at present.” 

‘^May God hear and sin be deaf,” ’ said Sancho to this. 

The men were filled with wonder, as well at the figure as at 
the words of Don Quixote, though they did not understand one 
half of what he meant by them. They finished their dinner, 
took their images on their backs, and bidding farewell to Don 
Quixote resumed their journey. 

Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master’s 
knowledge, as much as if he had never known him, for it 
seemed to him that there was no story or event in the world 
that he had not at his fingers’ ends and fixed in his memory, 
and he said to him, In truth, master mine, if this that has 
happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure, it has been 
one of the sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen us in 
the whole course of our travels ; we have come out of it unbe- 
labored and undismayed, neither have we drawn sword nor 
have we smitten the earth with our bodies, nor have we been 
left famishing; blessed.be God that he has let me see such a 
thing with my own eyes ! ” 

* Prov 90. 


CHAPTER LVIIL 


397 


Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, but re- 
member all times are not alike nor do they always run the 
same way ; and these things the vulgar commonly call omens, 
which are not based upon any natural reason, will by him who 
is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy accidents merely. 
One of these believers in omens will get up of a morning, leave 
his house, and meet a friar of the blessed Saint Francis, and, as 
if he had met a griffin, he will turn about and go home. With 
another Mendoza * the salt is spilt on his table, and gloom is 
spilt over his heart, as if nature was obliged to give warning 
of coming misfortunes by means of such trivial things as these. 
The wise man and the Christian should not trifle with what 
it may please Heaven to do. Scipio on coming to Africa 
stumbled as he leaped on shore ; his soldiers took it as a bad 
omen ; but he, clasping the soil with his arms, exclaimed, 
< Thou canst not escape me, Africa, for I hold thee tight be- 
tween my arms.’ Thus, Sancho, meeting those images has 
been to me a most happy occurrence.” 

“ I can well believe it,” said Sancho ; but I wish your 
worship would tell me what is the reason that the Spaniards, 
when they are about to give battle, in calling on that Saint 
James the Moorslayer, say ^Santiago and close Spain! Is 
Spain, then, open, so that it is needful to close it ; or what is 
the meaning of this form ? * 

“ Thou art very simple, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; ® God, 
look you,, gave that great knight of the Ked Cross to Spain as 
her patron saint and protector, especially in those hard 
struggles the Spaniards had with the Moors; and therefore 
they invoke and call upon him as their defender in all their 
battles; and in these he has been many a time seen beating 
down, trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering the 
Hagarene ^ squadrons in the sight of all ; of which fact I 
could give thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish 
histories.” 

* According to Covarrubias, family superstitions were very common 
in Spain; Quevedo, always a valuable illustrator of Cervantes, in The 
Book of All Things refers to this of the Mendoza family. " If you upset 
the salt-cellar,” he says, ‘‘ and are a Mendoza, rise from table without 
dining, and the omen will be fulfilled : for as it is a misfortune not to dine, 
a misfortune will have befallen you.” 

* Santiago y cierra Esparia — the old Spanish war-cry. 

® Hartzenbusch thinks something has dropped out here ; some sort of 
explanation of the words by Don Quixote. 

* i.e., of the descendants of Hagar. 


398 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, 
marvel, senor, at the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess’s 
handmaid ; he whom they call Love must have cruelly pierced 
and wounded her ; they say he is a little blind urchin who, 
though blear-eyed, or more properly speaking sightless, if he 
aims at a heart, be it ever so small, hits it and pierces it 
through and through with its arrows. I have heard it said 
too that the arrows of Love are blunted and robbed of their 
points by maidenly modesty and reserve ; but with this Altisi- 
dora it seems they are sharpened rather than blunted.” 

Bear in mind, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “ that love is 
influenced by no consideration, recognizes no restraints of 
reason, and is of the same nature as death, that assails alike 
the lofty palaces of kings and the humble cabins of shepherds ; 
and when it takes entire possession of a heart, the first thing 
it does is to banish fear and shame from it ; and so without 
shame Altisidora declared her passion, which excited in my 
mind embarrassment rather than commiseration.” 

Notable cruelty ! ” exclaimed Sancho ; unheard-of ingrati 
tude ! I can only say for myself that the very smallest loving 
word of hers would have subdued me and made a slave of me. 
The devil ! What a heart of marble, what bowels of brass, 
what a soul of mortar ! But I can’t imagine what it is that 
this damsel saw in your worship that could have conquered 
and captivated her so. What gallant figure was it, what bold 
bearing, what sprightly grace, what comeliness of feature, 
which of these things by itself, or what altogether, could have 
made her fall in love with you? For indeed and in truth 
many a time I stopped to look at your worship from the sole 
of your foot to the topmost hair of your head, and I see more 
to frighten one than to make one fall in love ; moreover I have 
heard say that beauty is the first and main thing that excites 
love, and as your worship has none at all, I don’t know what 
the poor creature fell in love with.” 

Recollect, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “ there are two 
sorts of beauty, one of the mind, the other of the body ; that of 
the mind displays and exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, 
in honorable conduct, in generosity, in good breeding ; and all 
these qualities are possible and may exist in an ugly man; and 
when it is this sort of beauty and not that of the body that is 
the attraction, love is apt to spring up suddenly and violently. 
I, Sancho, perceive clearly enough that I am not beautiful, but 


CHAPTER LVIIL 


399 


at the same time I know I am not hideous ; and it is enough 
for an honest man not to be a monster to be an object of love, if 
only he possesses the endowments of mind I have mentioned/’ 
While engaged in this discourse they were making their 
way through a wood that lay beyond the road, when suddenly, 
without expecting anything of the kind, Don Quixote found 
himself caught in some nets of green cord stretched from one 
tree to another ; and unable to conceive what it could be, he 
said to Sancho, Sancho, it strikes me this affair of these nets 
will prove one of the strangest adventures imaginable. May 
I die if the enchanters that persecute me are not trying to en- 
tangle me in them and delay my journey, by way of revenge 
for my obduracy towards Altisidora. Well then let me tell 
them that if these nets, instead of being green cord, were made 
of the hardest diamonds, or stronger than that wherewith the 
jealous god of blacksmiths enmeshed Venus and Mars, I would 
break them as easily as if they were made of rushes or cotton 
threads.” But just as he was about to press forward and 
break through all, suddenly from among some trees two shep- 
herdesses of surpassing beauty presented themselves to his 
sight — or at least damsels dressed like shepherdesses, save 
that their jerkins and sayas ' were of fine brocade ; that is to 
say, the sayas were rich farthingales of gold-embroidered 
tabby. Their hair, that in its golden brightness vied with the 
beams of the sun itself, fell loose upon their shoulders and 
was crowned with garlands twined with green laurel and red 
everlasting ; and their years to all appearance were not under 
fifteen nor above eighteen. Such was the spectacle that filled 
Sancho with amazement, fascinated Don Quixote, made the sun 
halt in his course to behold them, and held all four in a 
strange silence.^ One of the shepherdesses, at length, was the 
first to speak and said to Don Quixote, Hold, sir knight, and 
do not break these nets ; for they are not spread here to do 
you any harm, but only for our amusement ; and as I know 
you will ask why they have been put up, and who we are, I 
will tell you in a few words. In a village some two leagues 
from this, where there are many people of quality and rich 
gentlefolk, it was agreed upon by a number of friends and 
relations to come with their wives, sons and daughters, neigh- 

’ A sort of kirtle worn by the peasant women. 

* Hartzenbusch protests that Cervantes can never have written this ; 
but his pen undoubtedly does sometimes indulge in a flourish of the kind. 


400 


DON QUIXOTE. 


bors, friends and kinsmen, and make holiday in this spot 
which is one of the pleasantest in the whole neighborhood, 
setting up a new pastoral Arcadia among ourselves, we maidens 
dressing ourselves as shepherdesses and the youths as shep- 
herds. We have prepared two eclogues, one by the famous 
poet Garcilaso, the other by the most excellent Camoens, in 
its own Portuguese tongue, but we have not as yet acted them. 
Yesterday was the first day of our coming here ; we have a 
few of what they say are called field-tents pitched among the 
trees on the bank of an ample brook that fertilizes all these 
meadows ; last night we spread these nets in the trees here to 
snare the silly little birds that startled by the noise we make 
may fly into them. If you please to be our guest, senor, you 
will be welcomed heartily and courteously, for here just now 
neither care not sorrow shall enter.’^ 

She held her peace and said no more, and Don Quixote 
made answer, Of a truth, fairest lady, Actaeon when he un- 
expectedly beheld Diana bathing in the stream could not have 
been more fascinated and wonderstruck than I at the sight of 
your beauty. I commend your mode of entertainment, and 
thank you for the kindness of your invitation ; and if I can 
serve you, you may command me with full confidence of being 
obeyed, for my profession is none other than to show myself 
grateful, and ready to serve persons of all conditions, but 
especially persons of quality such as your appearance indi- 
cates ; and if, instead of taking up, as they probably do, but a 
small space, these nets took up the whole surface of the globe, 
I would seek out new worlds through which to pass, so as not 
to break them ; and that ye may give some degree of credence 
to this exaggerated language of mine, know that it is no less 
than Don Quixote of La Mancha that makes this declaration to 
you, if indeed it be that such a name has reached your ears.’^ 
Ah ! friend of my soul,’' instantly exclaimed the other 
shepherdess, “ what great good fortune has befallen us ! Seest 
thou this gentleman we have before us ? Well then let me tell 
thee he is the most valiant and the most devoted and the most 
courteous gentleman in all the world, unless a -history of his 
achievements that has been printed and I have read is telling 
lies and deceiving us. I will lay a wager that this good fellow 
who is with him is one Sancho Panza his squire, whose drol- 
leries none can equal.” 

^‘That’s true,” said Sancho j I am that same droll and 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


401 


squire you speak of, and this gentleman is my master Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, the same that ’s in the history and 
that they talk about. 

Oh, my friend,’’ said the other, let us entreat him to stay ; 
for it will give our fathers and brothers infinite pleasure ; I 
too have heard just what thou hast told me of the valor of the 
one and the drolleries of the other ; and what is more, of him 
they say that he is the most constant and loyal lover that was 
ever heard of, and that his lady is one Dulcinea del Toboso, 
to whom all over Spain the palm of beauty is awarded.” 

“ And justly awarded,” said Don Quixote, unless, indeed, 
your unequalled beauty makes it a matter of doubt. But 
spare yourselves the trouble, ladies, of pressing me to stay, 
for the urgent calls of my profession do not allow me to take 
rest under any circumstances.” 

At this instant there came up to the spot where the four 
stood a brother of one of the two shepherdesses, like them in 
shepherd costume, and as richly and gayly dressed as they 
were.. They told him that their companion was the valiant 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the other Sancho his squire, 
of whom he knew already from having read their history. 
The gay shepherd offered him his services and begged that he 
would accompany him to their 'tents, and Don Quixote had to 
give way and comply. And now the game was started, and 
the nets were filled with a variety of birds that deceived by 
the color fell into the danger they were flying from. Upwards 
of thirty persons, all gayly attired as shepherds and shep- 
herdesses, assembled on the spot, and were at once informed 
who Don Quixote and his squire were, whereat they were not a 
little delighted, as they knew of him already through his his- 
tory. They repaired to the tents, where they found tables 
laid out, and choicely, plentifully, and neatly furnished. They 
treated Don Quixote as a person of distinction, giving him the 
place of honor, and all observed him, and were full of astonish- 
ment at the spectacle. At last the cloth being removed, Don 
Quixote with great composure lifted up his voice and said : 

One of the greatest sins that men are guilty of is — some 
will say pride — but I say ingratitude, going by the common 
saying that hell is full of ingrates. This sin, So far as it has 
lain in my power, I have endeavored to avoid ever since I 
have enjoyed the faculty of reason ; and if I am unable to 
requite good deeds that have been done me by other deeds, I 
Voi.. II. — 2«J 


402 


DON QUIXOTE. 


substitute the desire to do so ; and if that be not enough I make 
them known publicly ; for he who declares and makes known 
the good deeds done to him would repay them by others if it 
were in his power, and for the most part those who receive 
are the inferiors of those who give. Thus, God is superior to 
all because he is the supreme giver, and the offerings of man 
fall short by an infinite distance of being a full return for the 
gifts of God ; but gratitude in some degree makes up for this 
deficiency and short-coming. I therefore, grateful for the 
favor that has been extended to me here, and unable to make 
a return in the same measure, restricted as I am by the narrow 
limits of my power, offer what I can and what I have to offer 
in my own way ; and so I declare that for two full days I will 
maintain in the middle of this highway leading to Saragossa, 
that these ladies disguised as shepherdesses, who are here 
present, are the fairest and most courteous maidens in the 
world, excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole 
mistress of my thoughts, be it said without offence to those 
who hear me, ladies and gentlemen.’’ 

On hearing this Sancho, who had been listening with great 
attention, cried out in a loud voice, Is it possible there is any 
one in the world who will dare to say and swear that this 
master of mine is a madman? Say, gentlemen shepherds, 
is there a village priest, be he ever so wise or learned, who 
could say what my master has said ; or is there knight-errant, 
whatever renown he may have as a man of valor, that could 
offer what my master has offered now ? ” 

Don Quixote turned upon Sancho, and with a countenance 
glowing with anger said to him, Is it possible, Sancho, there 
is any one in the whole world who will say thou art not a fool, 
with a lining to match, and I know not what trimmings of im- 
pertinence and roguery ? Who asked thee to meddle in my 
affairs, or to inquire whether I am a wise man or a blockhead ? 
Hold thy peace ; answer me not a word ; saddle Rocinante if 
he be unsaddled ; and let us go to put my offer into execution ; 
for with the right that I have on my side thou mayest reckon 
as vanquished all who shall venture to question it ; ” and in a 
great rage, and showing his anger plainly, he rose from his 
seat, leaving the company lost in wonder, and making them 
feel doubtful whether they ought to regard him as a madman 
or a rational being. In the end, though they sought to dis- 
suade him from involving himself in such a challenge, assur- 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


408 


mg him they admitted his gratitude as fully established, and 
needed no fresh proofs to be convinced of his valiant spirit, 
AS those related in the history of his exploits were sufficient, 
still Don Quixote persisted in his resolve ; and mounted on 
E-ocinante, bracing his buckler on his arm and grasping his 
lance, he posted himself in the middle of a high road that 
was not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed on 
Dapple, together with all the members of the pastoral gather- 
ing, eager to see what would be the upshot of his vainglorious 
and extraordinary proposal. 

Don Quixote, then, having, as has been said, planted himself 
in the middle of the road, made the welkin ring with words to 
this effect : Ho ye travellers and wayfarers, knights, squires, 
folk on foot or on horseback, who pass this way or shall pass in 
the course of the next two days ! Know that Don Quixote of 
La Mancha, knight-errant, is posted here to maintain by arms 
that the beauty and courtesy enshrined in the nymphs that 
dwell in these meadows and groves surpass all upon earth, 
putting aside the lady of my heart, Dulcinea del Toboso. 
Wherefore, let him who is of the opposite opinion come on, 
for here I await him.” 

Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they fell un- 
heard by any adventurer ; but fate, that was guiding affairs for 
him from better to better, so ordered it that shortly afterwards 
there appeared on the road a crowd of men on horseback, 
many of them with lances in their hands, all riding in a com- 
pact body and in great haste. No sooner had those who were 
with Don Quixote seen them than they turned about and with- 
irew to some distance from the road, for they knew that if 
they staid some harm might come to them ; but Don Quixote 
with intrepid heart stood his ground, and Sancho Panza 
shielded himself with Eocinante’s hind-quarters. The troop 
of lances came up, and one of them who was in advance began 
shouting to Don Quixote, Get out of the way, you son of 
the devil, or these bulls will knock you to pieces ! ” 

Eabble ! ” returned Don Quixote, I care nothing for 
bulls, be they the fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. ^ Con- 
fess at once, scoundrels, that what I have declared is true ; 
else ye have to deal with me in combat.” 

*The river that joins the Tagus at Aranjuez. The bull that Gazul 
encountered in the ballad, Esiando toda la Corte^ was " rvacido en le ribera 
del celehrado Jarama” 


404 


DON QUIXOTE. 


The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to get 
out of the way if he wished ; and so the drove of fierce bulls 
and tame bullocks,* together with the crowd of herdsmen and 
others who were taking them to be penned up at a village 
where they were to be run^ the next day, passed over Don 
Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante and Dapple, hurling them 
all to the earth and rolling them over on the ground. Sancho 
was left crushed, Don Quixote half stunned. Dapple belabored, 
and Rocinante in no very sound condition. They all got up, 
however, at length, and Don Quixote in great haste, stumbling 
here and falling there, started off running after the drove, 
shouting out, Hold ! stay ! ye rascally rabble, a single 
knight awaits you, and he is not of the temper or opinion of 
those who say, ‘ For a flying enemy make a bridge of silver.’ ” ^ 
The retreating party in their haste, however, did not stop for 
that, or heed his menaces any more than last year’s clouds. 
Weariness brought Don Quixote to a halt, and more enraged 
than avenged he sat down on the road to wait until Sancho, 
Rocinante and Dapple came up. When they reached him 
master and man mounted once more, and without going back 
to bid farewell to the mock or imitation Arcadia, and more in 
humiliation than contentment, they continued their journey. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE 

REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED TO DON 

QUIXOTE. 

A CLEAR limpid spring which they discovered in a cool 
grove relieved Don Quixote and Sancho of the dust and 
fatigue due to the un polite behavior of the bulls, and by the 
side of this, having turned Dapple and Rocinante loose with- 
out headstall or bridle, the forlorn pair, master and man, 
seated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the larder of his 
alforjas and took out of them what he called the prog;^ Don 

* Cabestros^ employed to lead the bulls when driven in from the 
pastures. 

* The phrase in Spanish is not " bull-fight ” but *' bull-run ” — corrida 
de toros. 

^Prov. 92. ■* Condumio^ meat dressed to be eaten with bread. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


406 


Quixote rinsed his mouth and bathed his face, by which cool- 
ing process his flagging energies were revived. Out of pure 
vexation he remained without eating, and out of pure polite- 
ness Sancho did not venture to touch a morsel of what was 
before him, but waited for his master to act as taster. See- 
ing, however, that, absorbed in thought, he was forgetting to 
carry the bread to his mouth, he said never a word, and 
trampling every sort of good breeding under foot, began to 
stow away in his paunch the bread and cheese that came to 
his hand. 

“ Eat, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote ; support life, 
which is of more consequence to thee than to me, and leave 
me to die under the pain of my thoughts and pressure of my 
misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to 
die eating ; and to prove the truth of what I say, look at me, 
printed in histories, famed in arms, courteous in behavior, 
honored by princes, courted by maidens ; and after all, when 
I looked forward to palms, triumphs, and crowns, won and 
earned by my valiant deeds, I have this morning seen myself 
trampled on, kicked, and crushed by the feet of unclean and 
filthy animals. This thought blunts my teeth, paralyzes my 
jaws, cramps my hands, and robs me of all appetite for food; 
so much so that I have a mind to let myself die of hunger, 
the cruelest death of all deaths.” 

So then,” said Sancho, munching hard all the time, your 
worship does not agree with the proverb that says, ^Let 
Martha die, but let her die with a full belly.’ ^ I, at any rate, 
have no mind to kill myself ; so far from that, I mean to do 
as the cobbler does, who stretches the leather with his teeth 
until he makes it reach as far as he wants. I ’ll stretch out 
my life by eating until it reaches the end Heaven has fixed for 
it ; and let me tell you, senor, there ’s no greater folly than to 
think of dying of despair as your worship does ; take my 
advice, and after eating lie down and sleep a bit on this green 
grass-mattress, and you will see that when you awake you ’ll 
feel something better.” 

Don Quixote did as he recommended, for it struck him that 
Sancho’s reasoning was more like a philosopher’s than a block- 
head’s, and said he, ‘‘ Sancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am 
going to tell thee my ease of mind would be more assured and 
my heaviness of heart not so great ; and it is this ; to go aside 
* Prov. 136. (^Muera Marta^ y muera harta.') 


406 


DON QUIXOTE. 


a little while I am sleeping in accordance with thy advice, and, 
making bare thy carcass to the air, to give thyself three or 
four hundred lashes with Eocinante’s reins, on account of the 
three thousand and odd thou art to give thyself for the dis- 
enchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the poor 
lady should be left enchanted through thy carelessness and 
negligence.” 

“ There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Sancho ,* 
“ let us both go to sleep now, and after that, God has decreed 
what will happen. Let me tell your worship that for a man 
to whip himself in cold blood is a hard thing, especially if the 
stripes fall upon an ill-nourished and worse-fed body. Let 
my lady Dulcinea have patience, and when she is least expect- 
ing it, she will see me made a riddle of with whipping, and 
^ until death it ’s all life ; ’ ^ I mean that I have still life in 
me, and the desire to make good what I have promised.” 

Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a 
good deal, and then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those 
two inseparable friends and comrades, Eocinante and Dapple, 
to their own devices and to feed unrestrained upon the abun- 
dant grass with which the meadow was furnished. They woke 
up rather late, mounted once more and resumed their journey, 
pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight, apparently a 
league off. I say an inn, because Don Quixote called it so, 
contrary to his usual practice of calling all inns castles. They 
reached it, and asked the landlord if they could put up there. 
He said yes, with as much comfort and as good fare as they 
could find in Saragossa. They dismounted, and Sancho stowed 
away his larder in a room of which the landlord gave him the 
key. He took the beasts to the stable, fed them, and came 
back to see what orders Don Quixote, who was seated on a 
bench at the door, had for him, giving special thanks to Heaven 
that this inn had not been taken for a castle by his master. 
Supper-time came, and they repaired to their room, and Sancho 
asked the landlord what he had to give them for supper. To 
this the landlord replied that his mouth should be the measure ; 
he had only to ask what he would ; for that inn was provided 
with the birds of the air and the fowls of the earth and the 
fish of the sea. 

“ There ’s no need of all that,” said Sancho ; if they M 
roast us a couple of chickens we ’ll be satisfied, for my master 
*Prov. 145. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


407 


is delicate and eats little, and I ’m not over and above glut- 
tonous.'^ 

The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had 
stolen them. 

Well then,” said Sancho, let senor landlord tell them to 
roast a pullet, so that it is a tender one.” 

Pullet ! My father ! ” said the landlord ; “ indeed and in 
truth it ^s only yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell ; 
but saving pullets ask what you will.” 

In that case,” said Sancho, you will not be without veal 
or kid.” 

J ust now,” said the landlord, there ’s none in the house, 
for it ’s all finished ; but next week there will be enough and 
to spare.” 

Much good that does us,” said Sancho ; I ’ll lay a bet 
that all these short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of 
bacon and eggs.” 

By God,” said the landlord, my guest’s wits must be 
precious dull ; I tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and 
he wants me to have eggs ! Talk of other dainties, if you 
please, and don’t ask for hens again.” 

Body o’ me ! ” said Sancho, let ’s settle the matter ; say 
at once what you have got, and let us have no more words 
about it.” 

In truth and earnest, senor guest,” said the landlord, all 
I have is a couple of cow-heels like calves’ feet, or a couple of 
calves’ feet like cow-heels ; they are boiled with chick-pease, 
onions, and bacon, and at this moment they are crying ^ Come 
eat me, come eat me.’ ” 

1 mark them for mine on the spot,” said Sancho ; let 
nobody touch them ; I ’ll pay better for them than any one 
else, for I could not wish for anything more to my taste ; and 
I don’t care a pin whether they are feet or heels.” 

Nobody shall touch them,” said the landlord ; for the 
other guests I have, being persons of high quality, bring their 
own cook and caterer and larder with them.” 

If you come to people of quality,” said Sancho, there ’s 
nobody more so than my master ; but the calling he follows 
does not allow of larders or store-rooms ; we lay ourselves 
down in the middle of a meadow, and fill ourselves with 
acorns or medlars.” 

Here ended Sancho’s conversation with the landlord, Sancho 


408 


DON QUIXOTE. 


not caring to carry it any farther by answering him ; for he 
had already asked him what calling or what profession it was 
his master was of. 

Supper-time having come, then, Don Quixote betook himself 
to his room, the landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it 
was, and he sat himself down to sup very resolutely. It 
seems that in another room, which was next to Don Quixote’s, 
with nothing but a thin partition to separate it, he overheard 
these words, “ As you live, Sehor Don Jeronimo, while they 
are bringing supper, let us read another chapter of the Second 
Part of ^Don Quixote of La Mancha.’ ” 

The instant Don Quixote heard his own name he started to 
his feet and listened with open ears to catch what they said 
about him, and heard the Don Jeronimo who had been 
addressed say in reply, Why would you have us read that 
absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible for any one who 
has read the First Part of the history of ‘ Don Quixote of La 
Mancha ’ to take any pleasure in reading this Second Part ? ” 
For all that,” said he who was addressed as Don Juan, 

we shall do well to read it, for there is no book so bad but it 
has something good in it.^ What displeases me most in it is 
that it represents Don Quixote as now cured of his love for 
Dulcinea del Toboso.” ^ 

On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, 
lifted up his voice and said, Whoever he may be who says 
that Don Quixote of La Mancha has forgotten or can forget 
Dulcinea del Toboso, I will teach him with equal arms that 
what he says is very far from the truth ; for neither can the 
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be forgotten, nor can forgetful- 
ness have a place in Don Quixote ; his motto is constancy, and 
his profession to maintain the same with his life and never 
wrong it.” ® 

‘‘ Who is this that answers us ? ” said they in the next 
room. 

“ Who should it be,” said Sancho, but Don Quixote of La 

*Prov. 128. 

* Avellaneda in chap. ii. of his continuation makes Aldonza Lorenzo 
write to Quixote threatening him with a beating for calling her Princess 
and Dulcinea, and Don Quixote stung by her ingratitude resolves to look 
out for another mistress. 

^ In the first edition the passage runs, " con suavidad y sin hacerse fuerza 
alguna^" of which it is difficult to make sense. Hartzenbusch suggests 
" sw and *' 



I'HE LANDLORD BROUGHT IN THE STEW-PAN JUST AS IT WAS. 











CHAPTER LIX. 


409 


Mancha himself, who will make good all he has said and all 
he will say ; for pledges don’t trouble a good paymaster ? ” ^ 
Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemen, 
for such they seemed to be, entered the room, and one of them, 
throwing his arms round Don Quixote’s neck, said to him. 

Your appearance cannot leave any question as to your name, 
nor can your name fail to identify your appearance ; unques- 
tionably, sehor, you are the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite and in 
defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring 
to naught your achievements, as the author of this book which 
I here present to you has done ; ” and with this he put a book 
which his companion carried into the hands of Don Quixote, who 
took it, and without replying began to run his eye over it ; but 
he presently returned it saying, « In the little I have seen I 
have discovered three things in this author that deserve to be 
censured. The first is some words that I have read in the pref- 
ace ; the next that the language is Aragonese, for sometimes he 
writes without article ; and the third, which above all stamps 
him as ignorant, is that he goes wrong and departs from the 
truth in the most important part of the history, for here he says 
that my squire Sancho Panza’s wife is called Mari Gutierrez, 
when she is called nothing of the sort, but Teresa Panza ; and 
when a man errs on such an important point as this there is 
good reason to fear that he is in error on every other point in 
the history.” ^ 

A nice sort of historian, indeed ! ” exclaimed Sancho at 
this ; he must know a deal about our affairs when he calls 
my wife Teresa Panza, Mari Gutierrez ; take the book again, 
senor, and see if I am in it and if he has changed my name.” 

“ From your talk, friend,” said Don Jeronimo, no doubt 
you are Sancho Panza, Senor Don Quixote’s squire.” 

Yes, I am,” said Sancho ; and I ’m proud of it.” 

. Faith, then,” said the gentleman, this new author does 
not handle you with the decency that displays itself in your 
person ; he makes you out a heavy feeder and a fool, and not 
in the least droll, and a very different being from the Sancho 
described in the First Part of your master’s history.” 

*Prov. 164. 

* Cervantes forgets that this blunder is of his own making. In chap, 
vii. Part I. he calls Sancho’s wife " Juana Gutierrez,” and six lines after- 
wards "Mari Gutierrez,” and in chap. lii. " Juana Panza.” [Here again 
Cervantes’s sarcastic humor seems to be misinterpreted. — Am. Ed.'\ 


410 


DON QUIXOTE. 


“ God forgive said Sancho ; he might have left me 

in my corner without troubling his head about me ; ‘ let him 
who knows how ring the bells ; ’ < Saint Peter is very well in 
Rome.’ ” ^ 

The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their 
room and have supper with them, as they knew very well 
there was nothing in that inn fit for one of his sort. Don 
Quixote, who was always polite, yielded to their request and 
supped with them. Sancho stayed behind with the stew-pan, 
and invested with plenary delegated authority seated himself 
at the head of the table, and the landlord sat down with him, 
for he was no less fond of cow-heel and calves’ feet than. 
Sancho was. 

While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news 
he had of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was she married, had 
she been brought to bed, or was she with child, or did she in 
maidenhood, still preserving her modesty and delicacy, cherish 
the remembrance of the tender passion of Senor Don Quixote ? 

To this he replied, Dulcinea is a maiden still, and my 
passion more firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatis- 
factory as before, and her beauty transformed into that of a 
foul country wench ; ” and then he proceeded to give them a 
full and particular account of the enchantment of Dulcinea, 
and of what had happened him in the cave of Montesinos, 
together with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for her 
disenchantment, namely the scourging of Sancho. 

Exceeding great was the amusement the two gentlemen 
derived from hearing Don Quixote recount the strange inci- 
dents of his history ; and if they were amazed by his absurdities 
they were equally amazed by the elegant style in which he 
delivered them. On the one hand they regarded him as a 
man of wit and sense, and on the other he seemed to them a 
maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their 
minds whereabouts between wisdom and folly they ought to 
place him. 

Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in 
the X condition,- repaired to the room where his master was, 
and as he came in said, May I die, sirs, if the author of this 
book your w*orships have got has any mind that we should 

* Pro vs. 211 and 206. 

* Hecho equis^ i.e. with legs that show a tendency to form the letter X, 
a graphic description of a drunken man. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


411 


agree ; as he calls me glutton (according to what your wor- 
ships say) I trust he does not call me drunkard too/^ 

“But he does,” said Don Jeronimo; “I cannot remember, 
however, in what way, though I know his words are offensive, 
and what is more, lying, as I can see plainly by the physiog- 
nomy of the worthy Sancho before me.” 

“ Believe me,” said Sancho, “ the Sancho and the Don 
Quixote of this history must be different persons from those 
that appear in the one Cid Hamet Benengeli wrote, who are 
ourselves ; my master valiant, wise, and true in love, and I 
simple, droll, and neither glutton nor drunkard.” 

“ I believe it,” said Don Juan ; “ and were it possible, an 
order should be issued that no one should have the pre- 
sumption to deal with anything relating to Don Quixote, 
save his original author Cid Hamet ; just as Alexander com- 
manded that no one should presume to paint his portrait 
save Apelles.” 

“ Let him who will paint me,” said Don Quixote ; “ but let 
him not abuse me ; for patience will often break down when 
they heap insults upon it.” 

“ None can be offered to Senor Don Quixote,” said Don Juan, 
“ that he himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not 
ward it off with the shield of his patience, which, I take it, is 
great and strong.” 

A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation 
of this sort, and though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read 
more of the book to see what it was all about, he was not to 
be prevailed upon, saying that he treated it as read and pro- 
nounced it utterly silly ; and, if by any chance it should come 
to the author’s ears that he had had it in his hand, he did not 
want him to flatter himself with the idea that he had read it ; 
for our thoughts, and still more our eyes, should keep them- 
selves aloof from what is obscene and filthy. 

They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He 
replied, to Saragossa, to take part in the harness jousts which 
were held in that city every year. Don Juan told him that 
the new history described how Don Quixote, let him be who 
he might, took part there in a tilting at the ring, utterly 
devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor in costume, 
though rich in sillinesses.^ 

* In chap. xi. Avellaneda gives an account of Don Quixote’s tilting at 
the ring in the Coso at Saragossa, and so prolix and encumbered with 
details that his admirer M. Germond de Lavigne was forced to leave it out. 


412 


DON QUIXOTE. 


For that very reason/’ said Don Quixote, I will not set 
foot in Saragossa ; and by that means I shall expose to the 
world the lie of this new history writer, and people will see 
that I am not the Don Quixote he speaks of.” 

You will do quite right,” said Don Jeronimo; and there 
are other jousts at Barcelona in which Sehor Don Quixote 
may display his prowess.” 

That is what I mean to do,” said Don Quixote ; and as 
it is now time, I pray your worships to give me leave to retire 
to bed, and to place and retain me among the number of your 
greatest friends and servants.” 

“ And me too,” said Sancho ; maybe I ’ll be good for some- 
thing.” 

With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and 
Sancho retired to their room, leaving Don Juan and Don 
Jeronimo amazed to see the medley he made of his good 
sense and his craziness ; and they felt thoroughly convinced 
that these, and not those their Aragonese author described, 
were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote 
rose betimes, and bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the 
partition of the other room. Sancho paid the landlord mag- 
nificently, and recommended him either to say less about the 
providing of his inn or to keep it better provided. 


CHAPTER LX. 

OP WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAT TO 
BARCELONA. 

It was a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as 
Don Quixote quitted the inn, first of all taking care to ascer- 
tain the most direct road to Barcelona without touching upon 
Saragossa ; so anxious was he to make out this new historian, 
who they said abused him so, to be a liar. Well, as it fell 
out, nothing worthy of being recorded happened him for six 
days, at the end of which, having turned aside out of the 
road, he was overtaken by night in a thicket of oak or cork 
trees ; for on this point Cid Hamet is not' as precise as he 
usually is on other matters. 


CHAPTER LX. 


413 


Master and man dismounted from their beasts, and as soon 
as they had settled themselves at the foot of the trees, 
Sancho, who had had a good noontide meal that day, let 
himself, without more ado, pass the gates of sleep. But Don 
Quixote, whom his thoughts, far more than hunger, kept 
awake, could not close an eye, and roamed in fancy to and fro 
through all sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him 
that he was in the cave of Montesinos and saw Dulcinea, 

transformed into a country wench, skipping and mounting 

upon her she-ass; again that the words of the sage Merlin 
were sounding in his ears, setting forth the conditions to be 
observed and the exertions to be made for the disenchantment 
of Dulcinea. He lost all patience when he considered the 
laziness and want of charity of his squire Sancho; for to the 
best of his belief he had only given himself five lashes, a 
number paltry and disproportioned to the vast number re- 
quired. At this thought he felt such vexation and anger that 

he reasoned the matter thus : If Alexander the Great cut 

the Gordian knot, saying, ^ To cut comes to the same thing as 
to untie,’ and yet did not. fail to become lord paramount of all 
Asia, neither more nor less could happen now in Dulcinea’s 
disenchantment if I scourge Sancho against his will ; for, if it 
is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall receive three 
thousand and odd lashes, what does it matter to me whether 
he inflicts them himself, or some one else inflicts them, when 
the essential point is that he receives them, let them come 
from whatever quarter they may ? ” 

With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken 
E-ocinante’s reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog 
him with them, and began to untie the points (the common 
belief is he had but one in front) by which his breeches were 
held up ; but the instant he approached him Sancho woke up 
in his full senses and cried out, What is this ? Who is touch- 
ing me and untrussing me ? ” 

It is I,” said Don Quixote, and I come to make good thy 
shortcomings and relieve my own distresses ; I come to whip 
thee, Sancho, and wipe off some portion of the debt thou hast 
undertaken. Dulcinea is perishing, thou art living on regard- 
less, I am dying of hope deferred ; therefore untruss thyself 
with a good will, for mine it is, here, in this retired spot, to 
give thee at least two thousand lashes.” 

Not a bit of it,” said Sancho ; let your worship keep 


414 


DON QUIXOTE. 


quiet, or else by the living God the deaf shall hear us ; the 
lashes I pledged myself to must be voluntary and not forced 
upon me, and just now I have no fancy to whip myself ; it is 
enough if I give you my word to flog and flap myself when 
I have a mind.’’ 

It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho,” said 
Don Quixote, for thou art hard of heart and, though a 
clown, tender of flesh ; ” and at the same time he strove and 
struggled to untie him. 

Seeing this Sancho got up, and grappling with his master 
he gripped him with all his might in his arms, and giving him 
a trip with the heel stretched him on the ground on his back, 
and pressing his right knee on his chest held his hands in his 
own so that he could neither move nor breathe. 

How now, traitor ! ” exclaimed Don Quixote. Dost thou 
revolt against thy master and natural lord ? Dost thou rise 
against him who gives thee his bread ? ” 

I neither put down king, nor set up king,” ^ said Sancho ; 
“ I only stand up for myself who am my own lord ; if your 
worship promises me to be quiet, ajud not offer to whip me 
now, I ’ll let you go free and unhindered ; if not — 

Traitor and Dona Sancha’s foe, 

Thou diest on the spot.” * 

Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his 
thoughts not to touch so much as a hair of his garments, and 
to leave him entirely free and to his own discretion to whip 
himself whenever he pleased. 

Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but 
as he was about to place himself leaning against another tree 
he felt something touch his head, and putting up his hands 
encountered somebody’s two feet with shoes and stockings on 
them. He trembled with fear and made for another tree, 
where the very same thing happened to him, and he fell 
a-shouting, calling upon Don Quixote to come and protect him. 

' Prov. 203. The words used by the page of Henry of Trastamara 
when he tripped up Pedro the Cruel as the two brothers were locked in 
the struggle that ended in the death of the latter. V. the ballad, Los 
Jieros cuerpos revueltos. 

* The last lines of the fine ballad, A cazar va Don Rodrigo^ that tells 
how Mudarra avenged his brothers by slaying Rodrigo de Lara. (Canci- 
onero, Antwerp, s.a. — Duran, No. 691.) 


CHAPTER LX. 


415 


Don Quixote did so, and asked him what had happened to him, 
and what he was afraid of. Sancho replied that all the trees 
were full of men’s feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and 
guessed at once what it was, and said to Sancho, Thou hast 
nothing to be afraid of, for these feet and legs that thou 
feelest but canst not see belong no doubt to some outlaws 
and freebooters that have been hanged on these trees ; for 
the authorities in these parts are wont to hang them up by 
twenties and thirties when they catch them ; whereby 1 con- 
jecture that I must be near Barcelona ; ” and it was, in 
fact, as he supposed ; with the first light they looked up and 
saw that the fruit hanging on those trees were freebooters’ 
bodies. 

And now day dawned ; and if the dead freebooters had 
scared them, their hearts were no less troubled by upwards of 
forty living ones, who all of a sudden surrounded them, and 
in the Catalan tongue bade them stand and wait until their 
captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot with his horse 
unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree, and in short 
completely defenceless ; he thought it best therefore to fold 
his arms and bow his head and reserve himself for a more 
favorable occasion and opportunity. The robbers made haste 
to search Dapple, and did not leave him a single thing of all 
he carried in the alforjas and in the valise ; and lucky it was 
for Sancho that the duke’s crowns and those he brought from 
home were in a girdle that he wore round him ; but for all 
that these good folk would have stripped him, and even looked 
to see what he had hidden between the skin and flesh, but for 
the arrival at that moment of their captain, who was about 
thirty-four years of age apparently, strongly built, above the 
middle height, of stern aspect and swarthy complexion. He 
was mounted upon a powerful horse, and had on a coat of 
mail, with four of the pistols they call petronels in that coun- 
try at his waist. He saw that his squires (for so they call 
those who follow that trade) were about to rifle Sancho Panza, 
but he ordered them to desist and was at once obeyed, so the 
girdle escaped. He wondered to see the lance leaning against 
the tree, the shield on the ground, and Don Quixote in armor 
and dejected, with the saddest and most melancholy face that 
sadness itself could produce ; and going up to him he said, 
<< Be not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen into 


416 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the hands of any inhuman Busiris,^ but into Eoque Guinart’s, 
which are more merciful than cruel. ® 

The cause of my dejection/’ returned Don Quixote, is 
not that I have fallen into thy hands, 0 valiant Eoque, whose 
fame is bounded by no limits on earth, but that my careless- 
ness should have been so great that thy soldiers should have 
caught me unbridled, when it is my duty, according to the rule 
of knight-errantry which I profess, to be always on the alert 
and at all times my own sentinel ; for let me tell thee, great 
Eoque, had they found me on my horse, with my lance and 
shield, it would not have been very easy for them to reduce 
me to submission, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, he 
who hath filled the whole world with his achievements.” 

Eoque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote’s weak- 
ness was more akin to madness than to swagger ; and though 
he had sometimes heard him spoken of, he never regarded the 
things attributed to him as true, nor could he persuade himself 
that such a humor could become dominant in the heart of 
man ; he was extremely glad, therefore, to meet him and test 
at close quarters what he had heard of him at a distance ; so 
he said to him, Despair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an 
untoward fate the position in which thou lindest thyself ; it 
may be that by these slips thy crooked fortune will make 
itself straight ; for Heaven by strange circuitous ways, myste- 
rious and incomprehensible to man, raises up the fallen and 
makes rich the poor.” 

Don Quixote was about to thank him, when they heard 
behind them a noise as of a troop of horses ; there was, how- 
ever, but one, riding on which at a furious pace came a youth, 
apparently about twenty years of age, clad in green damask 
edged with gold and breeches and a loose frock, with a hat 
looped up in the Walloon fashion, tight-fitting polished boots, 
gilt spurs, dagger and sword, and in his hand a musketoon, 
and a pair of pistols at his waist. 

Eoque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely 
figure, which drawing near thus addressed him, I came in 

^ Printed Osiris in the first edition. The Busiris, who with Memphian 
chivalry and perfidious hate pursued the sojourners of Goshen. — Para- 
dise Lost^ i. 307. 

2 This Roque Guinart, properly Rochaquinarda, was a Catalan bandit 
who made some noise three or four years before this was written. He 
carried out the intention he expressed to Don Quixote, for he went to 
Naples in 1611 and seems to have died in peace there. He appears to 
have been a well-behaved freebooter, as Cervantes depicts him. 


CHAPTER LX, 


417 


quest of thee, valiant Eoque, to find in thee if not a remedy 
at least relief in my misfortune; and not to keep thee in 
suspense, for I see thou dost not recognize me, I will tell thee 
who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima, the daughter of Simon 
Forte, thy good friend, and special enemy of Clauquel Tor- 
rellas, who is thine also as being of the faction opposed to 
thee. Thou knowest that this Torrellas has a son who is 
called, or at least was not two hours since, Don Vicente Tor- 
rellas. Well, to cut short the tale of my misfortune, I will 
tell thee in a few words what this youth has brought upon me. 
He saw me, he paid court to me, I listened to him, and 
unknown to my father, I loved him ; for there is no woman, 
however secluded she may live or close she may be kept, who 
will not have opportunities and to spare for following her 
headlong impulses. In a word, he pledged himself to be 
mine, and I promised to be his, without carrying matters any 
further. Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of his pledge to 
me, he was about to marry another, and that he was to go this 
morning to plight his troth, intelligence which overwhelmed 
and exasperated me ; my father not being at home I was able to 
adopt this costume you see, and urging my horse to speed I 
overtook Don Vicente about a league from this, and without 
waiting to utter reproaches or hear excuses I fired this musket 
at him, and these two pistols besides, and to the best of my 
belief I must have lodged more than two bullets in his body, 
opening doors to let my honor go free, enveloped in his blood. 
I left him there in the hands of his servants, who did not dare 
and were not able to interfere in his defence, and I come to 
seek from thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have rela- 
tives with whom I can live ; and also to implore thee to pro- 
tect my father, so that Don Vicente’s numerous kinsmen may 
not venture to wreak their lawless vengeance upon him.” 

Eoque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high 
spirit, comely figure, and adventure of the fair Claudia, s^id 
to her, Come, senora, let us go and see if thy enemy is dead ; 
and then we will consider what will be best for thee.” Don 
Quixote, who had been listening to what Claudia said and 
Eoque Guinart said in reply to her, exclaimed, Nobody need 
trouble himself with the defence of this lady, for I take it 
upon myself. Give me my horse and arms, and wait for me 
here ; I will go in quest of this knight, and dead or alive I 
will make him keep his word plighted to so great beauty.” 

VoL. II. - 27 


418 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Nobody need have any doubt about that,” said Sancho, 
“ for my master has a very happy knack of matchmaking ; 
it ’s not many days since he forced another man to marry, 
who in the same way backed out of his promise to another 
maiden; and if it had not been for his persecutors the 
enchanters changing the man’s proper shape into a lackey’s 
the said maiden would not be one this minute.” 

Eoque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia’s 
adventure than to the words of master or man, did not hear 
them; and ordering his squires to restore to Sancho every- 
thing they had stripped Dapple of, he directed them to return 
to the place where they had been quartered during the night, 
and then set off with Claudia at full speed in search of the 
wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached the spot where 
Claudia met him, but found nothing there save freshly spilt 
blood ; looking all around, however, they descried some people 
on the slope of a hill above them, and concluded, as indeed it 
proved to be, that it was Don Vicente, whom either dead or 
alive his servants were removing to attend to his wounds or to 
bury him. They made haste to overtake them, which as the 
party moved slowly, they were able to do with ease. They 
found Don Vicente in the arms of his servants, whom he was 
entreating in a broken feeble voice to leave him there to die, 
as the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to go any 
farther. Claudia and Eoque threw themselves off their horses 
and advanced toward him ; the servants were overaw^ed by the 
appearance of Eoque, and Claudia was moved by the sight of 
Don Vicente, and going up to him half tenderly half sternly, 
she seized his hand and said to him, “ Hadst thou given me 
this according to our compact thou hadst never come to this 
pass.” 

The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and 
recognizing Claudia said, I see clearly, fair and mistaken 
Igcdy, that it is thou that hast slain me, a punishment not 
merited or deserved by my feelings towards thee, for never 
did I mean to, nor could I, wrong thee in thought or deed.” 

, “ It is not true, then,” said Claudia, “ that thou wert going 

this morning to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich 
Balvastro ? ” 

Assuredly not,” replied Don Vicente; my cruel fortune 
must have carried those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy 
jealousy to take my life ; and to assure thyself of this, press 


CHAPTER LX. 


419 


my hand and take me for thy husband if thou wilt ; I have no 
better satisfaction to offer thee for the wrong thou fanciest 
thou hast received from me.’^ 

Claudia wrung his hand, and her own heart was so wrung 
that she lay fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicente, 
whom a death spasm seized the same instant. Roque was in 
perplexity and knew not what to do ; the servants ran to fetch 
water to sprinkle their faces, and brought some and bathed 
them with it. Claudia recovered from her fainting fit, but 
not so Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had overtaken 
him, for his life had come to an end. On perceiving this, 
Claudia, when she had convinced herself that her beloved 
husband Avas no more, rent the air with her sighs and made 
the heavens ring Avith her lamentations ; she tore her hair and 
scattered it to the winds, she beat her face with her hands 
and showed all the signs of grief and sorrow that could be 
conceived to come from an afflicted heart. Cruel, reckless 
Avoman ! she cried, how easily wert thou moved to carry 
out a thought so wicked ! 0 furious force of jealousy, to what 

desperate lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging 
in their bosoms ! 0 husband, whose unhappy fate in being 

mine hath borne thee from the marriage bed to the grave ! ” 

So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of 
Claudia that they drew tears from Roque’s eyes, unused as 
they were to shed them on any occasion. The servants wept, 
Claudia swooned aAvay again and again, and the whole place 
seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of misfortune. In the 
end Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente’s servants to carry 
his body to his father’s village, which was close by, for 
burial. Claudia told him she meant to go to a monastery of 
which an aunt of hers was abbess, where she intended to pass 
her life with a better and everlasting spouse. He applauded 
her pious resolution, and offered to accompany her whitherso- 
ever she wished, and to protect her father against the kinsmen 
of Don Vicente and all the world, should they seek to injure 
him. Claudia would not on any account allow him to accom- 
pany her ; and thanking him for his offers as Avell as she 
could, took leave of him in tears. The servants of Don 
Vicente carried away his body, and Roque returned to his 
comrades, and so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; but 
what wonder, when it was the insuperable and cruel might of 
jealousy that wove the web of her sad story ? 


420 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he 
had ordered them, and Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst 
of them delivering a harangue to them in which he urged 
them to give up a mode of life so full of peril, as well to the 
soul as to the body ; but as most of them were Gascons, rough 
lawless fellows, his speech did not make much impression on 
them. Roque on coming up asked Sancho if his men had 
returned and restored to him the treasures and jewels they 
had stripped off Dapple. Sancho said they had, but that 
three kerchiefs that were worth three cities were missing. 

What are you talking about, man ? ” said one of the 
bystanders ; “ I have got them, and they are not worth three 
reals.’^ 

That is true,” said Don Quixote ; but my squire values 
them at the rate he says, as having been given me by the 
person who gave them.” 

Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and 
making his men fall in in line he directed all the clothing, 
jewellery, and money that they had taken since the last dis- 
tribution to be produced ; and making a hasty valuation, and 
reducing what could not be divided into money, he made 
shares for the whole band so equitably and carefully, that in 
no case did he exceed or fall short of strict distributive 
justice. 

When this had been done, and all left satisfied, contented, 
and pleased, Roque observed to Don Quixote, If this scrupu- 
lous exactness were not observed with these fellows there 
would be no living with them.” 

Upon this Sancho remarked, From what I have seen here, 
justice is such a good thing that there is no doing without it, 
even among the thieves themselves.” 

One of the squires heard this, and raising the but-end of his 
arquebuse would no doubt have broken Sancho’s head with it 
had not Roque Guinart called out to him to hold his hand. 
Sancho was frightened out of his wits, and vowed not to open 
his lips so long as he was in the company of these people. 

At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted 
as sentinels on the roads to watch who came along them and 
report what passed to their chief, came up and said, Senor, 
there is a great troop of people not far off coming along the 
road to Barcelona.” 

To which Roque replied, “ Hast thou made out whether 


CHAPTER LX. 


421 


they are of the sort that are after us, or of the sort we are 
after ? 

The sort we are after,” said the squire. 

Well then, away with you all,” said Roque, and bring 
them here to me at once without letting one of them escape.” 

They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by 
themselves, waited to see what the squires brought, and while 
they were waiting Roque said to Don Quixote, It must seem 
a strange sort of life to Senor Don Quixote, this of ours, 
strange adventures, strange incidents, and all full of danger ; 
and I do not wonder that it should seem so, for in truth I 
must own there is no mode of life more restless or anxious 
than ours. What led me into it was a certain thirst for ven- 
geance, which is strong enough to disturb the quietest hearts. 
I am by nature tender-hearted and kindly, but, as I said, the 
desire to revenge myself for a wrong that was done me so 
overturns all my better impulses that I keep on in this way 
of life in spite of what conscience tells me ; and as one depth 
calls to another, and one sin to another sin, revenges have 
linked themselves together, and I have taken upon myself not 
only my own but those of others : it pleases God, however, 
that, though I see myself in this maze of entanglements, I do 
not lose all hope of escaping from it and reaching a safe 
port.” 

Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent 
and just sentiments, for he did not think that among those 
who followed such trades as robbing, murdering, and waylay- 
ing, there could be any one capable of a virtuous thought, and 
he said in reply, Senor Roque, the beginning of health lies 
in knowing the disease and in the sick man’s willingness to 
take the medicines which the physician prescribes ; you are 
sick, you know what ails you, and Heaven, or more properly 
speaking God, who is our physician, will administer medi- 
cines that will cure you, and cure gradually, and not of a 
sudden or by a miracle ; besides, sinners of discernment are 
nearer amendment than those who are fools ; and as your 
worship has shown good sense in your remarks, all you have 
to do is to keep up a good heart and trust that the weakness 
of your conscience will be strengthened. And if you have 
any desire to shorten the journey and put yourself easily in 
the way of salvation, come with me, and I will show you how 
to become a knight-errant, a calling wherein so many hard- 


422 


DON QUIXOTE. 


ships and mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as 
penances they will lodge you in heaven in a trice. 

Eoque laughed at Don Quixote’s exhortation, and changing 
the conversation he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeron- 
ima, at which Sancho was extremely grieved ; for he had not 
found the young woman’s beauty, boldness, and spirit at all 
amiss. 

And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, 
bringing with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims 
on foot, and a coach full of women with some six servants on 
foot and on horseback in attendance on them, and a couple of 
muleteers whom the gentlemen had with them. The squires 
made a ring round them, both victors and vanquished main- 
taining profound silence, waiting for the great Eoque Guinart 
to speak. He asked the gentlemen who they were, whither 
they were going, and what money they carried with them ; 
“ Senor,” replied one of them, we are two captains of Span- 
ish infantry ; our companies are at Naples, and we are on our 
way to embark in four galleys which they say are at Barcelona 
under orders for Sicily ; and we have about two or three 
hundred crowns, with which we are, according to our notions, 
rich and contented, for a soldier’s poverty does not allow a 
more extensive hoard.” 

Eoque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to 
the captains, and was answered that they were going to take 
ship for Eome, and that between them they might have about 
sixty reals. He asked also who was in the coach, whither 
they were bound and what money they had, and one of the 
men on horseback replied, The persons in the coach are my 
lady Dona Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the president of the 
ecclesiastical court at Naples, her little daughter, a handmaid 
and a duenna ; we six servants are in attendance upon her, 
and the money amounts to six hundred crowns.” 

So then,” said Eoque Guinart, we have got here nine 
hundred crowns and sixty reals ; my soldiers must number 
some sixty ; see how much there falls to each, for I am a bad 
arithmetician.” 

As soon as the robbers heard this they raised a shout of 
“ Long life to Eoque Guinart, in spite of the lladres ^ that 
seek his ruin ! ” 

The captains showed plainly the concern they felt, the pres- 
* Lladres., Catalan for thieves. 


CHAPTER LX. 


423 


ident’s lady was downcast, and the pilgrims did not at all 
enjoy seeing their property confiscated. Koque kept them in 
suspense in this way for a while ; but he had no desire to pro- 
long their distress, which might be seen a bowshot off, and 
turning to the captains he said, Sirs, will your worships be 
pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty crowns, and her 
ladyship the president’s wife eighty, to satisfy this band that 
follows me, for ^ it is by his singing the abbot gets his dinner ; ’ ^ 
and then you may at once proceed on your journey, free and 
unhindered, with a safe conduct which I shall give you, so 
that if you come across any other bands of mine that I have 
scattered in these parts, they may do you no harm ; for I have 
no intention of doing injury to soldiers, or to any woman, 
especially one of quality.” 

Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with 
which the captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and gener- 
osity ; for such they regarded his leaving them their own 
money. Senora Dona Guiomar de Quinones wanted to throw 
herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and hands of the great 
Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account ; so far from 
that, he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her 
under pressure of the inexorable necessities of his unfortunate 
calling. The president’s lady ordered one of her servants to 
give the eighty crowns that had been assessed as her share at 
once, for the captains had already paid down their sixty. The 
pilgrims were about to give up the whole of their little hoard, 
but Roque bade them keep quiet, and turning to his men he 
said, ^^Of these crowns two fall to each man and twenty 
remain over ; let ten be given to these pilgrims, and the other 
ten to this worthy squire that he may be able to speak favora- 
bly of this adventure ; ” and then having writing materials, 
with which he always went provided, brought to him, he gave 
them in writing a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands ; 
and bidding them farewell let them go free and filled with 
admiration at his magnanimity, his generous disposition, and 
his unusual conduct, and inclined to regard him as an Alexan- 
der the Great rather than a notorious robber. 

One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and 
Catalan, This captain of ours would make a better friar than 
highwayman ; if he wants to be so generous another time, let 
it be with his own property and not ours.” 

' Prov. 2. 


424 


DON QUIXOTE, 


The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Eoque 
overheard him, and drawing his sword almost split his head 
in two, saying, ‘‘ That is the way I punish impudent saucy 
fellows.’’ They were all taken aback, and not oae of them 
dared to utter a word, such deference did they pay him. 
Roque then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend 
of his at Barcelona, telling him that the famous Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, the knight-errant of whom there was so much 
talk, was with him, and was, he assured him, the drollest and 
wisest man in the world ; and that in four days from that 
date, that is to say, on Saint John the Baptist’s Day,^ he was 
going to deposit him in full armor mounted on his horse 
Rocinante, together with his squire Sancho on an ass, in the 
middle of the strand of the city ; and bidding him give notice 
of this to his friends the Niarros, that they might divert them- 
selves with them. He wished, he said, his enemies the Cadells ^ 
could be deprived of this pleasure ; but that was impossible, 
because the crazes and shrewd sayings of Don Quixote and the 
humors of his squire Sancho Panza could not help giving gen- 
eral pleasure to all the world. He despatched the letter by 
one of his squires, who, exchanging the costume of a highway- 
man for that of a peasant, made his way into Barcelona and 
gave it to the person to whom it was directed. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCE- 
LONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF 
THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS. 

Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with 
Roque, and had he passed three hundred years he would have 
found enough to observe and wonder at in his mode of life. 
At daybreak they were in one spot, at dinner-time in another ; 
sometimes they fled without knowing from whom, at other 
times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They slept 

* Reckoning by the dates of the letters written at the duke’s , St. John 
the Baptist’s Day was past. Cervantes means the “ beheading of John 
the Baptist.” 

* The Cadells and theNiarros were two Catalan clans, at feud at this 
time. 


CHAPTER LXL 


425 


standing, breaking their slumbers to shift from place to place. 
There was nothing but sending out spies and scouts, posting 
sentinels and blowing the matches of arquebuses, though they 
carried but few, for almost all used flint-locks. Roque passed 
his nights in some place or other apart from his men, that 
they might not know where he was, for the many procla- 
mations the viceroy of Barcelona had issued against his life 
kept him in fear and uneasiness, and he did not venture to 
trust any one, afraid that even his own men would kill him or 
deliver him up to the authorities ; of a truth, a weary miser- 
able life ! At length, by unfrequented roads, short cuts, and 
secret paths, Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, together with 
six squires, set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on 
Saint John’s Eve during the night; and Roque, after embrac- 
ing Don Quixote and Sancho (to whom he presented the ten 
crowns he had promised but had not until then given ), left 
them with many expressions of good-will on both sides. 

Roque went back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, 
just as he was, waiting for day, and it was not long before 
the countenance of the fair Aurora began to show itself at the 
balconies of the east, gladdening the grass and flowers, if not 
the ear ; though to gladden that too there came at the same 
moment a sound of clarions and drums, and a din of bells, and 
a tramp, tramp, and cries of Clear the way there ! ” of the 
passengers, that seemed to issue from the city. The dawn 
made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler 
began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon ; Don 
Quixote and Sancho gazed all around them; they beheld the 
sea, a sight until then unseen by them ; it struck them as 
exceedingly spacious and broad, much more so than the lakes 
of Ruidera which they had seen in La Mancha. They saw the 
galleys along the beach, which, lowering their awnings, dis* 
played themselves decked with streamers and pennons that 
trembled in the breeze and kissed and swept the water, while 
on board the bugles, trumpets, and clarions were sounding and 
filling the air far and near with melodious warlike notes. 
Then they began to move and execute a kind of skirmish upon 
the calm water, while a vast number of horsemen on fine 
horses and in showy liveries, issuing from the city, engaged on 
their side in a somewhat similar movement. The soldiers on 
board the galleys kept up a ceaseless fire, which they on the 
wails and forts of the city returned, and the heavy cannon 


426 


DON QUIXOTE, 


rent the air with the tremendous noise they made, to which 
the gangway guns of the galleys replied. The bright sea, the 
smiling earth, the clear air — though at times darkened by the 
smoke of the guns — all seemed to fill the whole > multitude 
with unexpected delight. Sancho could not make out how it 
was that those great masses that moved over the sea had so 
many feet. 

And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with 
shouts and outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote 
stood amazed and wondering ; and one of them, he to whom 
Roque had sent word, addressing him exclaimed, Welcome 
to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure of all knight- 
errantry in its widest extent ! Welcome, I say, valiant Don 
Quixote of La Mancha ; not the false, the fictitious, the 
apocryphal, that these latter days have offered us in lying 
histories, but the true, the legitimate, the real one that Cid 
Hamet Benengeli, flower of historians, has described to us ! ’’ 

Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the horsemen wait 
for one, but wheeling and wheeling again with all their 
followers, they began curvetting round Don Quixote, who, 
turning to Sancho, said, These gentlemen have plainly recog- 
nized us ; I will wager they have read our history, and even 
that newly printed one by the Aragonese. ’’ 

The cavalier who addressed Don Quixote again approached 
him and said, Come with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are 
all of us your servants and great friends of Roque Guinart’s ; 
to which Don Quixote returned, ^^If courtesy breeds courtesy, 
yours, sir knight, is daughter or very nearly akin to the great 
Roque’s ; carry me where you please ; I will have no will but 
yours, especially if you deign to employ it in your service.” 

The cavalier replied with words no less polite, and then, all 
closing in around him, they set out with him for the city to 
the music of the clarions and the drums. As they were enter- 
ing it, the wicked one, who is the author of all mischief, and 
the boys who are wickeder than the wicked one, contrived 
that a couple of these audacious irrepressible urchins should 
force their way through the crowd, and lifting up, one of them 
Dapple’s tail and the other Rocinante’s, insert a bunch 
of furze under each. The poor beasts felt the strange spurs 
and added to their anguish by pressing their tails tight, so 
much so that, cutting a multitude of capers, they flung their 
masters to the ground. Don Quixote, covered with shame 


CHAPTER LXIL 


427 


and out of countenance, ran to pluck the plume from his poor 
jade’s tail, while Sancho did the same for Dapple. His con- 
ductors tried to punish the audacity of the boys, but there was 
no possibility of doing so, for they hid themselves among the 
hundreds of others that were following them. Don Quixote 
and Sancho mounted once more, and with the same music and 
acclamations reached their conductor’s house, which was large 
and stately, that of a rich gentleman, in short ; and there for 
the present we will leave them, for such is Cid Hamet’s 
pleasure. 


CHAPTEE LXIL 

WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED 
HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH 
CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD. 

Don Quixote’s host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, 
a gentleman of wealth and intelligence, and very fond of divert- 
ing himself in any fair and good-natured way; and having 
Don Quixote in his house he set about devising modes of mak- 
ing him exhibit his mad points in some harmless fashion ; for 
jests that give pain are no jests,^ and no sport is worth any- 
thing if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make 
Don Quixote take off his armor, and lead him, in that tight cha- 
mois suit we have already described and depicted more than 
once, out on a balcony overhanging one of the chief streets of 
the city, in full view of the crowd and of the boys, who gazed 
at him as they would at a monkey. The cavaliers in livery 
careered before him again as though it were for him alone, and 
not to enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it, and 
Sancho was in high delight, for it seemed to him that, how he 
knew not, he had fallen upon another Camacho’s wedding, 
another house like Don Diego de Morena’s, another castle like 
the duke’s. Some of Don Antonio’s friends dined with him 
that day, and all showed honor to Don Quixote and treated 
him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up and exalted 
in consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. Such 
were the drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house, 
and all who heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. 

‘ Prov. 28. 


428 


DON QUIXOTE. 


While at table Don Antonio said to him, We hear, "vrorthy 
Sancho, that yon are so fond of manjar bianco^ and forced- 
meat balls, that if you have any left, you keep them in your 
bosom for the next day.’’ 

Ko, senor, that ’s not true,” said Sancho, for I am more 
cleanly than greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows 
well that we two are used to live for a week on a handful of 
acorns or nuts. To be sure, if it so happens that they offer 
me a heifer I run with a halter ; ^ I mean, I eat what I ’m given, 
and make use of opportunities as I find them ; but whoever 
says that I ’m an out-of-the-way eater or not cleanly, let me tell 
him that he is wrong ; and I ’d put it in a different way if I 
did not respect the honorable beards that are at the table.” 

Indeed,” said Don Quixote, “ Sancho’s moderation and 
cleanliness in eating might be inscribed and graved on plates 
of brass, to be kept in eternal remembrance in ages to come. 
It is true that when he is hungry there is a certain appearance 
of voracity about him, for he eats at a great pace and chews 
with both jaws ; but cleanliness he is always mindful of ; and 
when he was governor he learned how to eat daintily, so 
much so that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips, with 
a ’fork.” 

“ What ! ” said Don Antonio, has Sancho been a governor ? ” 

“ Ay,” said Sancho, “ and of an island called Barataria. I 
governed it to perfection for ten days ; and lost my rest all 
the time ; and learned to look down upon all the governments 
in the world ; I got out of it by taking to flight, and fell into a 
pit where I gave myself up for dead, and out of which I 
escaped alive by a miracle.” 

Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole 
affair of Sancho’s government, with which he greatly amused 
his hearers. 

On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Qui- 
xote by the hand, passed with him into a distant room in which 
there was nothing in the way of furniture except a table, 
apparently of jasper, resting on a pedestal of the same, upon 
which was set up, after the fashion of the busts of the Roman 
emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don Antonio 
traversed the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked 

* A dish composed of the breasts of fowls dressed with milk, sugar, 
and rice-flour. Don Antonio alludes to an incident in Avellaneda’s book. 

» Prov. 236. 


CHAPTER LXIL 


429 


round the table many times, and then said, Now, Senor Don 
Quixote, that I am satisfied that no one is listening to us, and 
that the door is shut, I will tell you of one of the rarest 
adventures, or more properly speaking strange things, that can 
be imagined, on condition th^t you will keep what I say to 
you in the remotest recesses of secrecy.” 

I swear it,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ and for greater security I 
will put a flag-stone over it ; for I would have you know, Senor 
Don Antonio ” (he had by this time learned his name), that 
you are addressing one who, though he has ears to hear, has 
no tongue to speak ; so that you may safely transfer whatever 
you have in your bosom into mine, and rely upon it that you 
have consigned it to the depths of silence.” 

In reliance upon that promise,” said Don Antonio, “ I will 
astonish you with what you shall see and hear, and relieve 
myself of some of the vexation it gives me to have no one to 
whom I can confide my secrets, for they are not of a sort to be 
intrusted to everybody.” 

Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the 
object of such precautions ; whereupon Don Antonio taking his 
hand passed it over the bronze head and the whole table 
and the pedestal of jasper on which it stood, and then said, 
“ This head, Senor Don Quixote, has been made and fabri- 
cated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the world 
ever saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the 
famous Escotillo of whom such marvellous stories are told.^ 
He was here in my house, and for a consideration of a thou- 
sand crowns that I gave him he constructed this head, which 
has the property and virtue of answering whatever questions 
are put to its ear. He observed the points of the compass, he 
traced figures, he studied the stars, he watched favorable 
moments, and at length brought it to the perfection we shall 
see to-morrow, for on Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday 
we must wait till the next day. In the interval your worship 
may consider what you would like to ask it ; and I know by 
experience that in all its answers it tells the truth.” 

Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of 

* Michael Escoto or Escotillo was a native of Parma, who had a great 
reputation in Flanders in the time of Alexander Farnese for his skill in 
judicial astrology, and was suspected of dealing in magic. Bowie absurdly 
confounds him with the more famous Michael Scot who flourished in the 
thirteenth century, though it is plain Cervantes is speaking of one who 
was his own contemporary. 


430 


DON QUIXOTE. 


the head, and was inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but 
seeing what a short time he had to wait to test the matter, he 
did not choose to say anything except that he thanked him 
for having revealed to him so mighty a secret. They then 
quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and they 
repaired to the chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were 
assembled. In the meantime Sancho had recounted to them 
several of the adventures and accidents that had happened to 
his master. 

That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not 
in his armor but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny 
cloth upon him, that at that season would have made ice itself 
sweat. Orders were left with the servants to entertain 
Sancho so as not to let him leave the house. Don Quixote 
was mounted, not on Docinante, but upon a tall mule of easy 
pace and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on 
him, and on the back, without his perceiving it, they stitched 
a parchment on which they wrote in large letters, This is 
Don Quixote of La Mancha.” As they set out upon their 
excursion the placard attracted the eyes of all who chanced to 
see him, and as they read out, This is Don Quixote of La 
Mancha,” Don Quixote was amazed to see how many people 
gazed at him, called him by his name, and recognized him, and 
turning to Don Antonio, who rode at his side, he observed to 
him, Great are the privileges knight-errantry involves, for it 
makes him who professes it known and famous in every 
region of the earth ; see, Don Antonio, even the very boys of 
this city know me without ever having seen me.” 

True, Sen or Don Quixote,” returned Don Antonio ; for 
as fire cannot be hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape 
being recognized ; and that which is attained by the profession 
of arms shines distinquished above all others.” 

It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was pro- 
ceeding amid the acclamations that have been described, 
a Castilian, reading the inscription on his back, cried out in a 
loud voice, The devil take thee for a Don- Quixote of La 
Mancha ! What ! art thou here, and not dead of the count- 
less drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs ? Thou art mad ; 
and if thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy 
madness, it would not be so bad ; but thou hast the gift of 
making fools and blockheads of all who have anything to do 
with thee or say to thee. Why, look at these gentlemen bear- 


CHAPTER LXII, 


431 


ing thee company ! Get thee home, blockhead, and see after 
thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and give over these 
fooleries that are sapping thy brains and skimming away thy 
wits.” 

“ Go your own way, brother,” said Don Antonio, and don’t 
offer advice to those who don’t ask you for it. Senor Don 
Quixote is in his full senses, and we who bear him company 
are not fools ; virtue is to be honored wherever it may be 
found ; go, and bad luck to you, and don’t meddle where you 
are not wanted.” 

^^By God, your worship is right,” replied the Castilian; 

for to advise this good man is to kick against the pricks ; 
still for all that it fills me with pity that the sound wit they 
say the blockhead has in everything should dribble away by 
the channel of his knight-errantry; but may the bad luck 
your worship talks of follow me and all my descendants, if, 
from this day forth, though I should live longer than Methu- 
selah, I ever give advice to anybody even if he asks me 
for it.” 

The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their 
stroll ; but so great was the press of the boys and people to 
read the placard, that Don Antonio was forced to remove it as 
if he were taking off something else. 

Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies 
dancing party, for Don Antonio’s wife, a lady of rank and 
gayety, beauty and wit, had invited some friends of hers to 
come and do honor to her guest and amuse themselves with 
his strange delusions. Several of them came, they supped 
sumptuously, and the dance began about ten o’clock. Among 
the ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, 
though perfectly modest, somewhat free in playing tricks for 
harmless diversion sake. These two were so indefatigable in 
taking Don Quixote out to dance that they tired him down, 
not only in body but in spirit. It was a sight to see the 
figure Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean, and yellow, his 
garments clinging tight to him, ungainly, and above all any- 
thing but agile. The gay ladies made secret love to him, and 
he on his part secretly repelled them, but finding himself hard 
pressed by their blandishments he lifted up his voice and 
exclaimed, Fuffite, 'partes adversce ! Leave me in peace, 
unwelcome overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, for 
she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Tobosp, 


432 


DON QUIXOTE, 


suffers none but hers to lead me captive and subdue me ; ’’ 
and so saying he sat down on the floor in the middle of the 
room, tired out and broken down by all this exertion in the 
dance. 

Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried 
to bed, and the first that laid hold, of him was Sancho, saying 
as he did so, “ In an evil hour you took to dancing, master 
mine ; do you fancy all mighty men of valor are dancers, and 
all knights-errant given to capering ? If you do, I can tell 
you you are mistaken; there’s many a man would rather 
undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had been the 
shoe-fling ^ you were at I could take your place, for I can do 
the shoe-fling like a gerfalcon ; but I ’m no good at dancing.” 

With these and other observations Sancho set the whole 
ball-room laughing, and then put his master to bed, covering 
him up well so that he might sweat out any chill caught after 
his dancing. 

The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make 
trial of the enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, 
and two others, friends of his, besides the two ladies that had 
tired out Don Quixote at the ball, who had remained for the 
night with Don Antonio’s wife, he locked himself up in the 
chamber where the head was. He explained to them the prop- 
erty it possessed and intrusted the secrets to them, telling 
them that now for the first time he was going to try the virtue 
of the enchanted head ; but except Don Antonio’s two friends 
no one else was privy to the mystery of the enchantment, and 
if Don Antonio had not first revealed it to them they would 
have been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement 
as the rest, so artfully and skilfully was it contrived. 

The first to approach the ear of the head, was Don Antonio 
himself, and in a low voice but not so low as not to be audible 
to all, he said to it, Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in 
thee what am I at this moment thinking of ? ” 

The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a 
clear and distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, ‘‘ I cannot 
judge of thoughts.” 

All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they 
saw that there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the 
whole room that could have answered. 

How many of us are here ? ” asked Don Antonio once 
* The dance referred to in chapter xix. 


CHAPTER LXIL 


4B8 


more ; and it was answered him in the same way softly, 
“ Thou and thy wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, 
and a famous knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a 
squire of his, Sancho Panza by name/’ 

Now there was fresh astonishment ; now every one’s hair 
was standing on end with awe ; and Don Antonio retiring from 
the head exclaimed, This suffices to show me that I have not 
been deceived by him who sold thee to me, 0 sage head, talk- 
ing head, answering head, wonderful head ! Let some one else 
go and put what question he likes to it.” 

And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the 
first to come forward was one of the two friends of Don 
Antonio’s wife, and her question was, Tell me. Head, what 
shall I do to be very beautiful ? ” and the answer she got was. 

Be very modest.” 

I question thee no further,” said the fair querist. 

Her companion then came up and said, I should like to 
know. Head, whether my husband loves me or not ; ” the 
answer given to her was, Think how he uses thee, and thou 
mayest guess ; ” and the married lady went off saying, That 
answer did not need a question ; for of course the treatment 
one receives shows the disposition of him from whom it is 
received.” 

Then one of Don Antonio’s two friends advanced and asked 
it, Who am I ? ” Thou knowest,” was the answer. That 
is not what I ask thee,” said the gentleman, “ but to tell me if 
thou knowest me.” Yes, I know thee, thou art Don Pedro 
Noriz,” was the reply. 

“ I do not seek to know more,” said the gentleman, for this 
is enough to convince me, 0 Head, that thou knowest every- 
thing ; ” and as he retired the other friend came forward and 
asked it, Tell me, Head, what are the wishes of my eldest 
son ? ” 

I have said already,” was the answer, ^^that I cannot judge 
of wishes ; however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to 
bury thee.” 

That ’s ^ what I see with my eyes I point out with my 
finger,’ ” ^ said the gentleman, “ so I ask no more.” 

Don Antonio’s wife came up and said, “ I know not what to 
ask thee. Head ; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall 
have many years of enjoyment of my good husband ; ” and the 

* Prov. 238. 

VOL. II. — 28 


434 


DON QUIXOTE, 


answer she received was, Thou shalt, for his vigor and his 
temperate habits promise many years of life, which by their 
intemperance others so often cut short/^ 

Then Don Quixote came forward and said, Tell me, thou 
that answerest; was that which I describe as having happened 
to me in the cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream ? Will 
my squire Sancho’s whipping be accomplished without fail ? 
Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be brought about ? ” 

As to the question of the cave,’^ was the reply, there is 
much to be said ; there is something of both in it. Sancho’s 
whipping will proceed leisurely. The disenchantment of 
Dulcinea will attain its due consummation.” 

I seek to know no more,” said Don Quixote ; “ let me but 
see Dulcinea disenchanted, and I will consider that all the 
good fortune I could wish for has come upon me all at once.” 

The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were. 
Head, shall I by any chance have another government ? Shall 
I ever escape from the hard life of a squire ? Shall I get ba.'k 
to see my wife and children ? ” To which the answer came. 
Thou shalt govern in thy house ; and if thou returnest to it 
thou shalt see thy wife and children ; and on ceasing to serve 
thou shalt cease to be a squire.” 

‘‘ Good, by God ! ” said Sancho Panza ; 1 could have told 
myself that ; the prophet Perogrullo could have said no 
more.” ^ 

“ What answer wouldst thou have, beast ? ” said Don Qui- 
xote ; “ is it not enough that the replies this head has given suit 
the questions put to it ? ” 

“ Yes, it is enough,” said Sancho ; but I should like 
it to have made itself plainer and told me more.” 

The questions and answers came to an end here, but not 
the wonder with which all were filled, except Don Antonio’s two 
friends who were in the secret. This Cid Hamet Benengeli 
thought fit to reveal at once, not to keep the world in suspense, 
fancying that the head had some strange magical mystery in it. 
He says, therefore, that on the model of another head, the work 
of an image-maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don Antonio 
made this one at home for his own amusement and to aston- 
ish ignorant people ; and its mechanism was as follows. The 

^ Perogrullo was a legendary personage who dealt in prophecies that 
were manifest truisms. Quevedo introduces him in the Visita de los 
Chistes. 


CHAPTER LXIL 


table was of wood painted and varnished to imitate jasper, 
and the pedestal on which it stood was of the same material, 
with four eagles’ claws projecting from it to support the weight 
more steadily. The head, which resembled a bust or figure of 
a Roman emperor, and was colored like bronze, was hollow 
throughout, as was the table, into which it was fitted so exactly 
that no trace of the joining was visible. The pedestal of the 
table was also hollow and communicated with the throat and 
neck of the head, and the whole was in communication with 
another room underneath the chamber in which the head stood. 
Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table, throat and 
neck of the bust or figure, there passed a tube of tin carefully 
adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room below corre- 
sponding to the one above was placed the person who was to 
answer, with his mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an 
ear-trumpet, passed from above downwards, and from below 
upwards, the words coming clearly and distinctly; it was 
impossible, thus, to detect the trick. A nephew of Don An- 
tonio’s, a smart, sharp-witted student, was the answerer, and as 
he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the persons were 
that would come with him that day into the chamber where the 
head was, it was an easy matter for him to answer the first 
question at once and correctly ; the others he answerd by 
guess-work, and being clever, cleverly. Cid Hamet adds that 
this marvellous contrivance stood for some ten or twelve days ; 
but that, as it became noised abroad through the city that he 
had in his house an enchanted head that answered all who 
asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing it might come to 
the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith, explained the 
matter to the inquisitors, who commanded him to break it up 
and have done with it, lest the ignorant vulgar should be scan- 
dalized. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head 
was still held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering 
questions, though more to Don Quixote’s satisfaction than 
Sancho’s. 

The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and 
also to do the honors to Don Quixote, and give him an op- 
portunity of displaying his folly, made arrangements for a 
tilting at the ring in six days from that time, which, however, 
for the reason that will be mentioned hereafter, did not take 
place. 

Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly 


436 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and on foot, for he feared that if he went on horseback the 
boys would follow him ; so he and Sancho and two servants 
that Don Antonio gave him set out for a walk. Thus it came 
to pass that going along one of the streets Don Quixote lifted 
up his eyes and saw written in very large letters over a door, 
Books printed here,’’ at which he was vastly pleased, for 
until then he had never seen a printing office, and he was 
curious to know what it was like. He entered with all his 
following, and saw them drawing sheets in one place, correct- 
ing in another, setting up type here, revising there ; in 
short all the work that is to be seen in great printing offices. 
He went up to one case and asked what they were about there ; 
the workmen told him, he watched them with wonder, and 
passed on. He approached one man, among others, and asked 
him what he was doing. The workman replied, Senor, this 
gentleman here ” (pointing to a man of prepossessing mien and 
appearance and a certain gravity of look ) has translated an 
Italian book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it up 
in type for the press. ” 

What is the title of the book ? ” asked Don Quixote ; to 
which the author replied, Senor, in Italian the book is called 
Le Bagatelle.'’^ 

And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish ? ” 
asked Don Quixote. 

Le Bagatelle,^'* said the author, is as though we should 
say in Spanish Los Juguetes ; but though the book is humble 
in name it has good solid matter in it.” 

I,” said Don Quixote, “ have some little smattering of 
Italian, and I plume myself on singing some of Ariosto’s 
stanzas ; but tell me, senor — I do not say this to test your 
ability, but merely out of curiosity — have you ever met with 
the word pignatta in your book ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, often,” said the author. 

“ And how do you render that in Spanish ? ” asked Don 
Quixote. 

How should I render it,” returned the author, but by 
olla^^? 

Body o’ me,” exclaimed Don Quixote, what a proficient 
you are in the Italian language ! I would lay a good wager 
that where they say in Italian piace you say in Spanish 
place, and where they say pin you say mas, and you translate 
su by arriba and giu by abajol’ 


CHAPTER LXIL 


437 


I translate them so of course/’ said the author, for those 
are their proper equivalents.” 

I would venture to swear,” said Don Quixote, that your 
worship is not known in the world, which always begrudges 
their reward to rare wits and praiseworthy labors. What 
talents lie wasted there ! What genius thrust away into 
corners ! What worth left neglected ! Still it seems to me 
that translation from one language into another, if it be not 
from the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is like 
looking at Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though 
the figures are visible, they are full of threads, that make 
them indistinct, and they do not show with the smoothness 
and brightness of the right side ; and translation from easy 
languages argues neither ingenuity nor command of words, 
any more than transcribing or copying out one document from 
another. But I do not mean by this to draw the inference 
that no credit is to be allowed for the work of translating, for 
a man may employ himself in ways worse and less profitable 
to himself. This estimate does not include two famous trans- 
lators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and 
Don Juan de Jauregui, in his Arriinta, wherein by their 
felicity they leave it in doubt which is the translation and 
which the original.’ But tell me, are you printing this book 
at your own risk, or have you sold the copyright to some 
bookseller ? ” 

I print at my own risk,” said the author, and I expect to 
make a thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is 
to be of two thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at 
six reals apiece.” * 

A fine calculation you are making ! ” said Don Quixote ; 
it is plain you don’t know the ins and outs of the printers, 
and how they play into one another’s hands. I promise you 
when you find yourself saddled with two thousand copies you 
will feel so sore that it will astonish you, particularly if the 

* The translation of the Pastor Fido appeared in 1609. Cervantes 
had before this warmly praised Figueroa in the Viaje del Parnaso^ not- 
withstanding which the year after his death Don Quixote and the Novelas 
was sneered at by Figueroa in his Pasagero^ 1617. There is no edition 
of Jauregui’s Aminta known ealier than that of Seville 1618, so that this 
is a friendly advertisement. 

* As Hartzenbusch points out, this leaves a margin altogether too narrow 
for the expenses. 


438 


DON QUIXOTE. 


book is a little out of the common and not in any -way highly 
spiced/^ 

What ! ” said the author, would your worship, then, have 
me give it to a bookseller who will give three maravedis for 
the copyright and think he is doing me a favor in giving me 
that ? I do not print my books to win fame in the world, for 
I am known in it already by my works ; I want to make 
money, without which reputation is not worth a rap.” 

God send your worship good luck,” said Don Quixote ; and 
he moved on to another case, where he saw them correcting a 
sheet of a book with the title of Light of the Soul ; ” ^ notic- 
ing it he observed, Books like this, though there are many 
of the kind, are the ones that deserve to be printed, for many 
are the sinners in these days, and lights unnumbered are 
needed for all that are in darkness.” 

He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another 
book, and when he asked its title they told him it was called. 
The Second Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote 
of La Mancha,” by a certain person of Tordesillas.* 

I have heard of this book already,” said Don Quixote, 
and verily and on my conscience I thought it had been by this 
time burned to ashes as a meddlesome intruder ; but its Martin- 
mas will come to it as it does to every pig ; ® for fictions have 
the more merit and charm about them the more nearly they 
approach the truth or what looks like it ; and true stories, 
the truer they are the better they are ; ” and so saying he 
walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of 
displeasure in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged 
to take him to see the galleys that lay at the beach, whereat 
Sancho was in high delight, as he had never seen any all 
his life. Don Antonio sent word to the commandant of the 

* Luz del Alma cristiana., by Fr. Felipe Meneses, 1556. 

Avellaneda’s volume was called Segundo Tomo^ not Second Part. It 

was hardly judicious in Cervantes to credit his enemy with a second edition, 
but he seems to lose his head whenever he thinks of Avellaneda and his 
insults ; and from this on he apparently thinks of little else. From chapter 
lix. to the end, indeed, there is a decided falling off. The story is at once 
hurried and spun out, and in the episodes of Claudia and Ana Felix he 
drops into the tawdry style of the novels in the First Part. It is only when 
he touches earth in Sancho Panza that he recovers anything like his old 
vigor. 

* Prov. 193. Martinmas., i.e., killing day, that being the great day for 
pig-killing in Spain. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 


439 


galleys that he intended to bring his guest, the famous Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the commandant and all 
the citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them ; 
and what happened on board of them will be told in the next 
chapter.^ 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE 

VISIT TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF 

THE FAIR MORISCO. 

Profound were Don Quixote^s reflections on the reply of 
the enchanted head, not one of them, however, hitting on the 
secret of the trick, but all concentrated on the promise, which 
he regarded as a certainty, of Dulcinea’s disenchantment. 
This he turned over in his mind again and again with great 
satisfaction to himself, fully persuaded that he would shortly 
see its fulfilment ; and as for Sancho, though, as has been said, 
he hated being a governor, still he had a longing to be giving 
orders and finding himself obeyed once more ; this is the mis- 
fortune that being in authority, even in jest, brings with it. 

To resume ; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno 
and his two friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to 
the galleys. The commandant had been already made aware 
of his good fortune in seeing two such famous persons as Don 
Quixote and Sancho, and the instant they came to the shore all 
the galleys struck their awnings and the clarions rang out. 
A skiff covered with rich carpets and cushions of crimson 
velvet was immediately lowered into the water, and as Don 
Quixote stepped on board of it, the leading galley fired her 
gangway gun, and the other galleys did the same ; and as he 
mounted the starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as 
is the custom when a personage of distinction comes on board 
a galley) by exclaiming “ Hu, hu, hu,” three times. The 
general, for so we shall call him, a Valencian gentleman of 
rank, gave him his hand and embraced him, saying, “ I shall 
mark this day with a white stone as one of the happiest I can 

* An impudent attempt was made in Berlin in 1824 to insert two forged 
chapters here giving an account of Don Quixote’s adventure at a masked 
ball. The forgery was a very clumsy one, being full of Germanisms. 


440 


DON QUIXOTE. 


expect to enjoy in my lifetime, since I have seen Senor Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, pattern and image wherein we see con- 
tained and condensed all that is worthy in knight-errantry.’^ 

Don Quixote, delighted beyond measure with such a lordly 
reception, replied to him in words no less courteous. All then 
proceeded to the poop, which was very handsomely decorated, 
and seated themselves on the bulwark benches ; the boatswain 
passed along the gangway and piped all hands to strip, which 
they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing such a number of men 
stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and still more when he 
saw them spread the awning so briskly that it seemed to him 
as if all the devils were at work at it ; but all this was cakes 
and fancy bread to what I am going to tell now. Sancho was 
seated on the captain’s stage, close to the aftermost rower on 
the right-hand side. He, previously instructed in what he 
was to do, laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in his arms, 
and the whole crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the 
right, proceeded to pass him on, whirling him along from hand 
to hand and from bench to bench with such rapidity that it 
took the sight out of poor Sancho’s eyes, and he made quite sure 
that the devils themselves were flying away with him ; nor did 
they leave off with him until they had sent him back along the 
left side and deposited him on the poop ; and the poor fellow 
was left bruised and breathless and all in a sweat, and unable 
to comprehend what it was that had happened to him. 

Don Quixote when he saw Sancho’s flight without wings 
asked the general if this was the usual ceremony with those 
who came on board the galleys for the first time ; for, if so, 
as he had no intention of adopting them as a profession, he 
had no mind to perform such feats of agility, and if any one 
offered to lay hold of him to whirl him about, he vowed to 
God he would kick his soul out ; and as he said this he stood 
up and clapped his hand upon his sword. At this instant 
they struck the awning and lowered the yard with a prodigious 
rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off its hinges and 
going to fall on his head, and full of terror he ducked it and 
buried it between his knees ; nor were Don Quixote’s knees 
altogether under control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his 
shoulders together and lost color. The crew then hoisted the 
yard with the same rapidity and clatter as when they lowered 
it, all the while keeping silence as though they had neither 
voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the signal to weigh 


CHAPTER LXIIL 


441 


anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway began to 
lay on to the shoulders of the crew with his courbash or whip, 
and to haul out gradually to sea. 

When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the 
oars to be) moving altogether, he said to himself, It ’s these 
that are the real enchanted things, and not the ones my 
master talks of. What can those wretches have done to be 
whipped in that way ; and how does that one man who goes 
along there whistling dare to whip so many ? I declare this is 
hell, or at least purgatory ! 

Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded 
what was going on, said to him, Ah, Sancho my friend, how 
quickly and cheaply might you finish off the disenchantment of 
Dulcinea, if you would strip to the waist and take your place 
among those gentlemen ! Amid the pain and sufferings of so 
many you would not feel your own much ; and moreover 
perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these lashes, be- 
ing laid on with a good hand, to count for ten of those which 
you must give yourself at last.^^ 

The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and 
what was Dulcinea’s disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, 

Monjuich i signals that there is an oared vessel off the coast 
to the west.” 

On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway cry- 
ing, Now then, my sons, don’t let her give us the slip ! It 
must be some Algerine corsair brigantine that the watch-tower 
signals to us.” The three others immediately came alongside 
the chief galley to receive their orders. The general ordered 
two to put out to sea while he with the other kept in shore, so 
that in this way the vessels could not escape them. The crews 
plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously that they seemed 
to fly. The two that had put out to sea, after a couple of miles 
sighted a vessel which, so far as they could make out, they judged 
to be one of fourteen or fifteen banks, and so she proved. As 
soon as the vessel discovered the galleys she went about with 
the object and in the hope of making her escape by her speed ; 
but the attempt failed, for the chief galley was one of the 
fastest vessels afloat, and overhauled her so rapidly that they 
on board the brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility 
of escaping, and the rais ^ therefore Avould have had them 
drop their oars and give themselves up so as not to provoke the 
‘ Monjuich, the citadel of Barcelona. * Rais = captain. 


442 


DON QUIXOTE. 


captain in command of our galleyc to anger. But chance 
directing things otherwise, so ordered it that just as the chief 
galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to hear 
the shouts from her calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis, 
that is to say drunken Turks, that with a dozen more were on 
board the brigantine, discharged their muskets, killing two of 
the soldiers that lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the 
general swore he would not leave one of those he found on 
board the vessel alive, but as he bore down furiously upon her 
she slipped away from him beneath the oars. The galley shot 
a good way ahead ; those on board the vessel saw their case 
was desperate, and while the galley was coming about they 
made sail, and by sailing and rowing once more tried to sheer 
off : but their activity did not do them as much good as their 
rashness did them harm, for the galley coming up with them 
in a little more than half a mile threw her oars over them 
and took the whole of them alive. The other two galleys now 
joined company, and all four returned with the prize to the beach, 
where a vast multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see 
what they brought back. The general anchored close in, and 
perceived that the viceroy of the city was on the shore. He 
ordered the skiff to push off to fetch him, and the yard to be 
lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith the rais and the 
rest of the men taken on board the vessel, about six-and-thirty 
in number, all smart fellows and most of them Turkish musket- 
eers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, and was 
answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards 
proved to be a Spanish renegade), ‘^This young man, senor, 
that you see here is our rais,’’ and he pointed to one of the 
handsomest and most gallant-looking youths that could be im- 
agined. He did not seem to be twenty years of age. 

Tell me, reckless dog,” said the general, what led thee 
to kill my soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible for 
thee to escape ?■ Is that the way to behave to chief galleys ? 
Knowest thou not that rashness is not valor ? Faint pros- 
pects of success should make men bold, but not rash.” 

The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at 
that moment listen to him, as he had. to hasten to receive the 
viceroy, who was now coming on board the galley, and with 
him certain of his attendants and some of the people. 

“ You have had a good chase, senor general,” said the 
viceroy 


CHAPTER LX in. 


443 


Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game 
strung up to this yard,” replied the general. 

How so ? ” returned the viceroy. 

Because,” said the general, against all law, reason, and 
usages of war they have killed on my hands two of the best 
soldiers on board these galleys, and I have sworn to hang 
every man that I have taken, but above all this youth who is 
the rais of the brigantine,” and he pointed to him as he stood 
with his hands already bound and the rope round his neck, 
ready for death. 

The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favored, 
so graceful, and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his 
life> the comeliness of the youth furnishing him at once with a 
letter of recommendation. He therefore questioned him, say- 
ing, Tell me, rais, art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade ? ” 

' To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, I am neither 
Turk, nor Moor, nor renegade.” 

“ What art thou, then ? ” said the viceroy. 

A Christian woman,” replied the youth. 

A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such cir- 
cumstances! It is more marvellous than credible,” said the 
viceroy. 

' Suspend the execution of the sentence, gentlemen,” said 
the youth ; your vengeance will not lose much by waiting 
while I tell you the story of my life.” 

What heart could be so hard as not to be softened by these 
words, at any rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy 
youth had to say ? The general bade him say what he pleased, 
but not to expect pardon for his flagrant offence. With this 
permission the youth began in these words. 

“ Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy 
than wise, upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. 
In the course of our ^ misfortune I was carried to Barbary by 
two uncles of mine, for it was in vain that I declared I was a 
Christian, as in fact I am, and not a mere pretended one, or 
outwardly, but a true Catholic Christian. It availed me noth- 
ing with those charged with our sad expatriation to protest 
■this, nor would my uncles believe it ; on the contrary, they 
treated it as an untruth and a subterfuge set up to enable me 
to remain behind in the land of my birth ; and so, more by 
•force than of my own will, they took me with them. I had a 
Christian mother, a jid a father who was a man of sound sense 


444 


DON QUIXOTE. 


and a Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my 
mother’s milk, I was well brought np, and neither in word nor 
in deed did I, I think, show any sign of being a Morisco. To 
accompany these virtues, for such I hold them, my beauty, if 
I possess any, grew with my growth ; and great as was the 
seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but that a young 
gentleman, Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a gen- 
tleman who is lord of a village near ours, contrived to find op- 
portunities of seeing me. How he saw me, how we met, how 
his heart was lost to me, and mine not kept from him, would 
take too long to tell, especially at a moment when I am in 
dread of the cruel cord that threatens me interposing between 
tongue and throat; I will only say, therefore, that Don Gre- 
gorio chose to accompany me in our banishment. He joined 
company with the Moriscoes who were going forth from other 
villages, for he knew their language very well, and on the 
voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who 
were carrying me with them ; for my father, like a wise and 
far-sighted man, as soon as he heard the first edict for our 
expulsion, quitted the village and departed in quest of some 
refuge for us abroad. He left hidden and buried, at a spot of 
which I alone have knowledge, a large quantity of pearls and 
precious stones of great value, together with a sum of money 
in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He charged me on no account 
to touch the treasure, if by any chance they expelled us be- 
fore his return. I obeyed him, and with my uncles, as I have 
said, and others of our kindred and neighbors, passed over to 
Barbary, and the place where we took up our abode was Al- 
giers, much the same as if we had taken it up in hell itself. 
The king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my 
wealth, which was in some degree fortunate for me. He sum- 
moned me before him, and asked me what part of Spain I 
came from, and what money and jewels I had. I mentioned 
the place, and told him the jewels and the money were buried 
there ; but that they might easily be recovered if I myself went 
back for them. All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty* and 
not his own covetousness should influence him. While he was 
engaged in conversation with me, they brought him word that 
in company with me was one of the handsomest and most 
graceful youths that could be imagined. I knew at once that 
they were speaking of Don Gaspar Gregorio, whose comeliness 
surpasses the most highly vaunted beauty. I was troubled 


CHAPTER LXIIL 


445 


when I thought of the danger he was in, for among those bar- 
barous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a woman, be 
she ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to 
be brought before him that he might see him, and asked me if 
what they said about the youth was true. I then, almost as if 
inspired by Heaven, told him it was, but that I would have 
him to know it was not a man, but a woman like myself, and 
I entreated him to allow me to go and dress her in the attire 
proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen to perfection, 
and that she might present herself before him with less embar- 
rassment. He bade me go by all means, and said that the next 
day we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return to 
Spain to carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, 
I told him the danger he was in if he let it be seen he was a 
man, I dressed him as a Moorish woman, and that same after- 
noon I brought him before the king, who was charmed when he 
saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel and make a present 
of her to the Grand Signor ; and to avoid the risk she might 
run among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of him- 
self, he commanded her to be placed in the house of some 
Moorish ladies of rank who would protect and attend to her ; 
and thither he was taken at once. What we both suffered (for 
I cannot deny but I love him), may be left to the imagination 
of those who are separated if they love one another dearly. 
The king then arranged that I should return to Spain in this 
brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed your soldiers, 
should accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish 
renegade ” — and here she pointed to him who had first spoken 
— “ whom I know to be secretly a Christian, and to be more 
desirous of being left in Spain than of returning to Barbary. 
The rest of the crew of the brigantine are Moors and Turks, 
who merely serve as rowers. The two Turks, greedy and in- 
solent, instead of obeying the orders we had to land me and 
this renegade in Christian dress (with which we came provided) 
on the first Spanish ground we came to, chose to run along the 
coast and make some prize if they could, fearing that if they 
put us ashore first, we might, in case of some accident befall- 
ing us, make it known that the brigantine was at sea, and thus, 
if there happened to be any galleys on the coast, they might 
be taken. We sighted this shore last night, and knowing noth- 
ing of these galleys we were discovered, and the result was what 
you have seen. To sum up, there is Don Gregorio in woman^s 


446 


DON QUIXOTE. 


dress, among women, in imminent danger of his life ; and here 
am I, with hands bound, in expectation, or rather in dread, of 
losing my life, of which I am already weary. Here, sirs, ends 
my sad story, as. true as it is unhappy ; all I ask of you is to 
allow me to die like a Christian, for, as I have already said, I 
am not to be charged with the offence of which those of my 
nation are guilty ; and she stood silent, her eyes filled with 
moving tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. 
The viceroy, touched with compassion, went up to her without 
speaking, and with his own hands untied the cord that bound 
the fair hands of the Moorish girl. 

But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange 
story, an elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the 
galley at the same time as the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed 
upon her ; and the instant she ceased speaking he threw him- 
self at her feet, and embracing them said in a voice broken by 
sobs and sighs, 0 Ana Felix, my unhappy daughter, I am 
thy father Eicote, come back to look for thee, unable to live 
without thee, n;y soul that thou art ! ” 

At these words of his Sancho opened his eyes and raised 
his head, which he had been holding down, brooding over his 
unlucky excursion ; and looking at the pilgrim he recognized 
in him that same Eicote he met the day . he quitted his 
government, and felt satisfied that this was his daughter. 
She being now unbound embraced her father, mingling her 
tears with his, while he addressing the general and the viceroy 
said, This, sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her advent- 
ures than in her name. She is Ana Felix, surnamed Eicote, 
celebrated as much for her own beauty as for my wealth. I 
quitted my native land in search of some shelter or refuge for 
us abroad, and having found one in Germany I returned in 
this pilgrim’s dress, in the company of some other German 
pilgrims, to seek my daughter and take up a large quantity of 
treasure I had left buried. My daughter I did not find, the 
treasure I found and have with me ; and now, in this strange 
roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that more 
than all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our inno- 
cence and her tears and mine can with strict, justice open the 
door to clemency, extend it to us, for we never had any inten- 
tion of injuring you, nor do we in any way sympathize with 
the aims of our people, who have been justly banished.” 

know Eicote well,”. said. Sancho at this, ‘f and. I. know 


CHAPTER LXIIL 


447 


too that what he says about Ana Felix being his daughter is 
true; but as to those other particulars about going and 
coming, and having good or bad intentions, I say nothing.” 

While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence 
the general said, At any rate your tears will not allow me to 
keep my oath ; live, fair Ana Felix, all the years that Heaven 
has allotted you ; but these rash insolent fellows must pay the 
penalty of the crime they have committed ; ” and with that he 
gave orders to have the two Turks who had killed his two 
soldiers hanged at once in the yard-arm. The viceroy, how- 
ever, begged him earnestly not to hang them, as their behavior 
savored rather of madness than of bravado. The general 
yielded to the viceroy’s request, for revenge is not easily taken 
in cold blood. They then tried to devise some scheme for 
rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he 
had been left. Kicote offered for that object more than two 
thousand ducats that he had in pearls and gems ; they proposed 
several plans, but none so good as that suggested by the rene- 
gade already mentioned, who offered to return to Algiers in a 
small vessel of about six banks, manned by Christian rowers, 
as he knew where, how, and when he could and should land, 
nor was he ignorant of the house in which Don Gaspar was 
staying. The general and the viceroy had some hesitation 
about placing confidence in the renegade and intrusting him 
with the Christians who were to row, but Ana Felix said she 
could answer for him, and her father offered to go and pay the 
ransom of the Christians if by any chance they should not be 
forthcoming. This, then, being agreed upon, the viceroy 
landed, and Don Antonio Moreno took the fair Morisco and 
her father home with him, the viceroy charging him to give 
them the best reception and welcome in his power, while on 
his own part he offered all that his house contained for their 
entertainment ; so great was the good-will and kindliness the 
beauty of Ana Felix had infused into his heart. 


448 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE 

MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BE- 
FALLEN HIM. 

The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was 
extremely happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She wel- 
comed her with great kindness, charmed as well by her beauty 
as by her intelligence ; for in both respects the fair Morisco 
was richly endowed, and all the people of the city flocked to 
see her as though they had been summoned by the ringing of 
the bells. 

Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for 
releasing Don Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were 
greater than its advantages, and that it would be better to 
land himself with his arms and horse in Barbary; for he 
would carry him off in spite of the whole Moorish host, as Don 
Gaiferos carried off his wife Melisendra. 

Remember, your worship,’’ observed Sancho on hearing 
him say so, Senor Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the 
mainland, and took her to France by land ; but in this case, if 
by chance we carry off Don Gregorio, we have no way of 
bringing him to Spain, for there ’s the sea between.” 

“ There ’s a remedy for everything except death,” ^ said Don 
Quixote ; if they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be 
able to get on board though all the world strive to prevent us.” 

“ Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy,” 
said Sancho ; but * ^ it ’s a long step from saying to doing ; ’ ^ 
and I hold to the renegade, for he seems to me an honest good- 
hearted fellow.” 

Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove 
successful, the expedient of the great Don Quixote’s expedi- 
tion to Barbary should be adopted. Two days afterwards the 
renegade put to sea in a light vessel of six oars a-side manned 
by a stout crew, and two days later the galleys made sail east- 
ward, the general having begged the viceroy to let him know 
all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana Felix, 
and the viceroy promised to do as he requested. 

One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the, 
* Prov. 146. * Prov. 76. 


CHAPTER LXIV, 


449 


beach, arrayed in full armor (for, as he often said, that was 
his only gear, his only rest the fray,” and he never was with- 
out it for a moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, 
also in full armor, with a shining moon painted on his shield, 
who, on approaching sufficiently near to be heard, said in a 
loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, Illustrious 
knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La 
Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard- 
of achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy memory. 
I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy arm, 
to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my 
lady, let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy 
Dulcinea del Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly 
and openly, thou shalt escape death and save me the trouble 
of inflicting it upon thee ; if thou fightest and I vanquish thee, 
I demand no other satisfaction than that, laying aside arms 
and abstaining from going in quest of adventures, thou with- 
draw and betake thy self to thine own village for the space of 
a year, and live there without putting hand to sword, in peace 
and quiet and beneficial repose, the same being needed for the 
increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul ; and 
if thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, 
my arms and horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds 
transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be thy 
best course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is 
all the time I have for the despatch of this business. 

Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the 
Knight of the White Moon’s arrogance, as at his reason for 
delivering the defiance, and with calm dignity he answered 
him, Knight of the White Moon, of whose achievements I 
have never heard until now, I will venture to swear you have 
never seen the illustrious Dulcinea ; for had you seen her I 
know you would have taken care not to venture yourself upon 
this issue, because the sight would have removed all doubt 
from your mind that there ever has been or can be a beauty to 
be compared with hers ; and so, not saying you lie, but merely 
that you are not correct in what you state, I accept your chal- 
lenge, with the conditions you have proposed, and at once, that 
the day you have fixed may not expire ; and from your con- 
ditions I except only that of the renown of your achievements 
being transferred to me, for I know not of what sort they are 
nor what they may amount to ; I am satisfied with my own, 

VOL. II. — 29 


450 


DON QUIXOTE, 


such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you 
choose, and I will do the same ; and to whom God shall give 
it may Saint Peter add his blessing.” 

The Knight of the White Mooon had been seen from the 
city, and it was told the viceroy how he was in conversation 
with Don Quixote. The viceroy, fancying it must be some 
fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or some other 
gentleman of the city, hurried out at once to the beach accom- 
panied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just 
as Don Quixote was wheeling Kocinante round in order to take 
up the necessary distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing that 
the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the charge, 
put himself between them, asking them what it was that led 
them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The 
Knight of the White Moon replied that it was a question of 
precedence of beauty ; and briefly told him what he had said 
to Don Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance agreed 
upon on both sides had been accepted. The viceroy went over 
to Don Antonio, and asked in a low voice did he know who the 
Knight of the White Moon was, or was it some joke they were 
playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he neither 
knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or 
earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, 
not knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not ; 
but unable to persuade himself that it was anything but a joke 
he fell back, saying, If there be no other way out of it, 
gallant knights, except to confess or die, and Don Quixote is 
inflexible, and your worship of the White Moon still more so, 
in God’s hand it be, and fall on.” 

He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and 
well-chosen words for the permission he gave them, and so did 
Don Quixote, who then, commending himself with all his heart 
to Heaven and to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of 
any combat that awaited him, proceeded to take a little more 
distance, as he saw his antagonist was doing the same;' then, 
without blast of trumpet or other warlike instrument to give 
them the signal to charge, both at the same instant wheeled 
their horses ; and he of the Whitfe Moon, being the swifter, 
met Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the 
course, and there encountered him with such violence that, 
without touching him with his lance (for he held it high, to all 
appearance purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Kocinante 


CHAPTEH LXiy. 


451 


to the earth, a perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and 
placing the lance over his visor said to him, You are van- 
quished, sir knight, nay dead unless you admit the conditions 
of our defiance.’’ 

Hon Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor 
said in a weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, 
Hulcinea del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I 
the most unfortunate knight on earth ; it is not fitting that this 
truth should suffer by my feebleness ; drive your lance home, 
sir knight, and take my life, since you have taken away my 
honor.” 

“ That will I not, in sooth,” said he of the White Moon ; live- 
the fame of the lady Hulcinea’s beauty undimmed as ever ; all 
I require is that the great Hon Quixote retire to his own home 
for a year, or for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined 
upon him, as we agreed before engaging in this combat.” 

The viceroy, Hon Antonio, and several others who were pres- 
ent, heard all this, and heard too how Hon Quixote replied 
that so long as nothing in prejudice of Hulcinea was demanded 
of him, he would observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. 
The engagement given, he of the White Moon wheeled about, 
and making obeisance to the viceroy with a movement of the 
head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The viceroy 
bade Hon Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or 
other find out who he was. They raised Hon Quixote up and 
uncovered his face, and found him pale and bathed with sweat. 
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay 
unable to stir for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and 
woebegone, knew not what to say or do. He fancied that all 
was a dream, that the whole business was a piece of enchant- 
ment. Here was his master defeated, and bound not to take up 
arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of his achieve- 
ments obscured ; the hopes of the promises lately made him 
swept away like smoke before the wind ; Rocinante, he feared, 
was crippled for life, and his master’s bones out of joint; for 
if he were only shaken out of his madness it would be no small 
luck.^ In the end they carried him into the city in a hand-chak 
which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy himself re- 
turned, eager to ascertain who this Knight of the White Moon 
was who had left Hon Quixote in such a sad plight. 

- ’ There is nn untranslatable pun here on the double meaning of de& 
locado — ■ out of joint, and cured of madness. 


452 


DON QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE 

MOON WAS • LIKEWISE DON GREGORIO’s RELEASE, AND OTHER 

EVENTS. 

Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White 
Moon, and a number of boys followed him too, nay pursued 
him, until they had him fairly housed in a hostel in the heart 
of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his acquaintance, 
entered also ; a squire came out to meet him and remove his 
armor, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by 
Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found 
out who he was. He of the White Moon, seeing then that the 
gentleman would not leave him, said, I know very well, 
senor, what you have come for ; it is to find out who I am ; 
and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you, 
while my servant here is taking off my armor I will tell you 
the true state of the case, without leaving out anything. You 
must know, senor, that I am called the bachelor Samson Car- 
rasco. I am of the same village as Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
whose craze and folly make all of us who know him feel pity 
for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most ; and 
persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and 'keep- 
ing at home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keep- 
ing him there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out to 
meet him as a knight-errant, under the assumed name of the 
Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage him in combat and 
overcome him without hurting him, making it the condition of 
our combat that the vanquished should be at the disposal of 
the victor. What I meant to demand of him (for I regarded 
him as vanquished already) was that he should return to his 
own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time 
he might be cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he van- 
quished me and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went 
his way, and I came back conquered, covered with shame, and 
sorely bruised by my fall, which was a particularly dangerous 
one. But this did not quench my desire to meet him again 
and overcome him, as you have seen to-day. And as he is so 
scrupulous in his observance of the laws of knight-errantry, he 
will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey the injunction 


CHAPTER LXV. 


453 


I have laid upon him. This, senor, is how the matter stands, 
and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of you not to 
betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am ; so that my honest 
endeavors may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits 
— were he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry — may get them 
back again.’’ 

‘‘ 0 senor,” said Don Antonio, may God forgive you the 
wrong you have done the whole world in trying to bring the 
most amusing madman in it back to his senses. Do you not see, 
jjefior, that the gain by Don Quixote’s sanity can never equal 
the enjoyment his crazes give ? But my belief is that all the 
nenor bachelor’s pains will be of no avail to bring a man so 
jtiopelessly cracked to his senses again ; and if it were not un- 
charitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for 
oy bis recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his 
squire Sancho Panza’s too, any one of which is enough to turn 
melancholy itself into merriment. However, I ’ll hold my 
peace and say nothing to him, and we ’ll see whether I am right 
in my suspicion that Senor Carrasco’s efforts will be fruitless.” 

The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised 
wull, and he hoped for a happy result from it ; and putting 
his services at Don Antonio’s commands he took his leave of 
him ; and having had his armor packed at once upon a mule, 
he rode away from the city the same day on the horse he rode 
to battle, and returned to his own country without meeting any 
adventure calling for record in this veracious history. 

Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, 
and the viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with 
Don Quixote’s retirement there was an end to the amusement 
of all who knew any thing of his mad doings. 

Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, 
moody and out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his 
defeat. Sancho strove to comfort him, and among other things 
he said to him, “ Hold up your head, senor, and be of good 
cheer if you can, and give thanks to Heaven that if you have 
had a tumble to the ground you have not come off with a 
broken rib ; and, as you know that where they give they take,^ 
and that there are not always flitches where there are pegs,^ a 
fig for the doctor, for there ’s no need of him to cure this ail- 
ment. Let us go home, and give over going about in search 
of adventures in strange lands and places ; rightly looked at, 
* Prov. 70. * Prov. 226. 


454 


DOy QUIXOTE. 


it is I that am the greater loser, though it is your worship that 
has had the worst usage. With the government I gave up all 
wish to be a governor again, but I did not give up all longing 
to be a count ; and that will never come to pass if your wor- 
ship gives up becoming a king by renouncing the calling of 
chivalry ; and so my hopes are going to turn into smoke.’’ 

Peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; thou seest my sus- 
pension and retirement is not to exceed a year ; I shall soon 
return to my honored calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a 
kingdom to win and a county to bestow on thee.” 

May God hear it and sin be deaf,” ^ said Sancho ; I have 
always heard say that a good hope is better than a bad 
holding.” 2 

As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely 
pleased and exclaiming, ^‘Pay me for my good news, Senor 
Don Quixote ! Don Gregorio and the renegade who went for 
him have come ashore — ashore do I say ? They are by this 
time in the viceroy’s house, and will be here immediately.” 

Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, Of a truth I am 
almost ready to say I should have been glad had it turned out 
just the other way, for it would have obliged me to cross over 
to Barbary, where by the might of my arm I should have re- 
stored to liberty, not only Don Gregorio, but all the Christian 
captives there are in Barbary. But what am I saying, miser- 
able being that I am ? Am I not he that has been conquered ? 
Am I not he that has been overthrown ? Am I not he who must 
not take up arms for a year ? Then what am I making profes- 
sions for ; what am I bragging about ; when it is fitter for me 
to handle the distaff than the sword ? ” 

^^No more of that, senor,” said Sancho ; Get the hen live, 
even though it be with her pip ; ’ » < to-day for thee and to- 
morrow for me ; ’ ^ in these alfairs of encounters and whacks 
one must not mind them, ^ for he that falls to-day may get up 
to-morrow ; ’ ® unless indeed he chooses to lie in bed, I mean 
gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh spirit for 
fresh battles ; let your worship get up now to receive Don 
Gregorio ; for the household seems to be in a bustle, and no 
doubt he has come by this time ; ” and so it proved, for as 
soon as Don Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy 
an account of the voyage out and home, Don Gregorio, eager 

.^Prov. 90. *Prov. 97. ® ProT. 101. 

Prov. 119. ^Prov. 30. 


CHAPTER LXV, 


4:3b 


to see Ana Felix, came with the renegade to Don Antonio’s 
house. When they carried him away from Algiers he was in 
woman’s dress ; on board the vessel, however, he exchanged it 
for that of a captive who escaped with him ; but in whatever 
dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served 
and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favored, and to 
judge by appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. 
Eicote and his daughter came out to welcome him, the father 
with tears, the daughter with bashfulness. They did not em- 
brace each other, for where there is deep love there will never 
be overmuch boldness. Seen side by side, the comeliness of 
Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana Felix were the admira- 
tion of all who were present. It was silence that spoke for 
the lovers at that moment, and their eyes were the tongues 
that declared their pure and happy feelings. The renegade 
explained the measures and means he had adopted to rescue 
Don Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a 
few words, in which he showed that his intelligence was in 
advance of his years, described the peril and embarrassment 
he found himself in among the women with whom he had so- 
journed. To conclude, Eicote liberally recompensed and re- 
warded as well the renegade as the men who had rowed ; and 
the renegade effected his re-admission into the body of the 
Church and was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb be- 
came by penance and repentance a clean and sound one. 

Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the 
steps they should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to 
stay in Spain, for it seemed to them there could be no objec- 
tion to a daughter who was so good a Christian and a father 
to all appearance so well disposed remaining there. Don 
Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the capital, whither 
he was compelled to go on some other business, hinting that 
many a difficult affair was settled there with the help of favor 
and bribes. 

^^Nay,” said Eicote, who was present during the conversar 
tion, it will not do to rely upon favor or bribes, because 
with the great Don Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, 
to whom his Majesty has intrusted our expulsion, neither en- 
treaties nor promises, bribes nor appeals to compassion, are of 
any use ; for though it is true he mingles mercy with justice, 
still, seeing that the whole body of our nation is tainted and 
corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns rather than the 


456 


DON QUIXOTE. 


salve that soothes ; and thus, by prudence, sagacity, care, and 
the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders the 
weight of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our 
schemes and plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to 
blind his Argus eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should 
remain behind in concealment, and like a hidden root come in 
course of time to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, 
now cleansed, and relieved of the fear in which our vast num- 
bers kept it. Heroic resolve of the great Philip the Third, and 
unparalleled wisdom to have intrusted it to the said Don 
Bernardino de Velasco ! ” ^ 

“ At any rate,’’ said Don Antonio, “ when I am there I will 
make all possible efforts, and let Heaven do as pleases it best ; 
Don Gregorio will come with me to relieve the anxiety which 
his parents must be suffering on account of his absence ; Ana 
Felix will remain in my house with my wife, or in a monastery ; 
and I know the viceroy will be glad that the worthy Kicote 
should stay with him until we see what terms I can make.” 

The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed ; but Don Greg- 
orio on learning what had passed declared he could not and 
would not on any account leave Ana Felix ; however, as it was 
his purpose to go and see his parents and devise some way of 
returning for her, he fell in with the proposed arrangement. 
Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio’s wife, and Kicote in 
the viceroy’s house. 

The day for Don Antonio’s departure came ; and two days 
later that for Don Quixote’s and Sancho’s, for Don Quixote’s 
fall did not suffer him to take the road sooner. There were 
tears and sighs, swoonings and sobs, at the parting between 
Don Gregorio and Ana Felix. Kicote offered Don Gregorio a 
thousand crowns if he would have them, but he would not take 
any save five which Don Antonio lent him and he promised to 
repay at the capital. So the two of them took their departure, 
and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been already 
said, Don Quixote without his armor and in travelling gear, 
and Sancho on foot. Dapple being loaded with the armor. 

* Clemencin says this Don Bernardino de Velasco was famous for hav- 
ing one of the hardest hearts and ugliest faces in all Spain. He was 
specially charged with the expulsion of the Manchegan Moriscoes. 


CHAPTER LXVL 


457 . 


CHAPTER LXVL 

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT 
HE WHO HAS IT READ TO HIM WILL HEAR. 

As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned to gaze upon the 
spot where he had fallen. Here Troy was,’’ said he ; here 
my ill-luck, not my cowardice, robbed me of all the glory I had 
won ; here Fortune made me the victim of her caprices ; here 
the lustre of my achievements was dimmed ; here, in a word, 
fell my happiness never to rise again.” 

Senor,” said Sancho on hearing this, it is the part of 
brave hearts to be patient in adversity just as much as to be 
glad in prosperity ; I judge by myself, for, if when I was a 
governor I was glad, now that I am a squire and on foot I am 
no sad ; and I have heard say that she whom commonly they 
call Fortune is a drunken whimsical jade, and what is more, 
blind, and therefore neither sees what she does, nor knows 
whom she casts down or whom she sets up.” 

Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 

thou speakest very sensibly ; I know not who taught thee. 
But I can tell thee there is no such thing as Fortune in the 
world, nor does anything which takes place there, be it good or 
bad, come about by chance, but by the special pre-ordination of 
Heaven ; and hence the common saying that each of us is the 
maker of his own fortune.^ I have been that of mine ; but 
not with the proper amount of prudence, and my self-confidence 
has therefore made me pay dearly ; for I ought to have re- 
flected that Bocinante’s feeble strength could not resist the 
mighty bulk of the Knight of the White Moon’s horse. In a 
word, I ventured it, I did my best, I was overthrown, but 
though I lost my honor I did not lose nor can I lose the 
virtue of keeping my word. When I was a knight-errant, dar- 
ing and valiant, I supported my achievements by hand and 
deed, and now that I am a humble squire I will support my 
words by keeping the promise I have given. Forward then, 
Sancho my friend, let us go to keep the year of the novitiate 
in our own country, and in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh 
strength to return to the by me never-forgotten calling of arms.” 

<< Senor,” returned Sancho, travelling on foot is not such a 
* Prov. 237. 


458 


DON QUIXOTE. 


pleasant thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to 
make long marches. Let us leave this armor hung up on some 
tree, instead of some one that has been hanged ; and then with 
me on Dapple’s back and my feet off the ground we will ar- 
range the stages as your worship pleases to measure them out ; 
but to suppose that I am going to travel on foot, and make 
long ones, is to suppose nonsense.” 

“ Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; “ let my 
armor be hung up for a trophy, and under it or round it we 
will carve on the trees what was inscribed on the trophy of 
Koland’s armor — 

These let none move 

Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.” 

“That ’s the very thing,” said Sancho ; “ and if it was not 
that we should feel the want of Kocinante on the road, it would 
be as well to leave him hung up too!” 

“ And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armor 
hung up,” said Don Quixote, “ that it may not be said, <for 
good service a bad return.’”^ 

“Your worship is right,” said Sancho ; “ for, as sensible 
people hold, ^ the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack- 
saddle ; ’ ^ and, as in this affair the‘ fault is your worship’s, 
punish yourself and don’t let your anger break out against the 
already battered and bloody armor, or the meekness of Koci- 
nante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying to make them travel 
more than is reasonable.” . 

In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as 
did the four succeeding ones, without anything occurring to in- 
terrupt their journey, but on the fifth as they entered a village 
they found a great number of people at the door of ah inn en- 
joying themselves, as it was a holiday. Upon Don Quixote’s 
approach a peasant called out, “ One of these two gentlemen who 
come here, and who don’t know the parties, will tell us what 
we ought to do about our wager.” 

“That I will, certainly,” said Don Quixote, “ and according 
to the rights of the case, if I can manage to Understand it.” 

“Well, here it is, worthy sir,” said the peasant ; “a man of 
this village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged 
another, a neighbor of his, who does not Weigh more than nine,' 
to run a race. The agreement was that they weri6 to run a 
* Prov. 217. • Prov. 18. 


CHAPTER LXVL 


459 


distance of a hundred paces with equal weights ; and when the 
challenger was asked how the weights were to be equalized he 
said that the other, as he weighed nine stone, should put eleven 
in iron on his back, and that in this way the twenty stone of 
the thin man would equal the twenty stone of the fat one/’ 

Not at all,” exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote 
could answer ; it ’s for me, that only a few days ago left off 
being a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to settle 
these doubtful questions and give an opinion in disputes of all 
sorts.” 

Answer in God’s name, Sancho my friend,” said Don Qui- 
xote, for I am not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so 
confused and upset.” 

With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood 
clustered round him, waiting with open mouths for the deci- 
sion to come from his, Brothers, what the fat man requires 
is not in reason, nor has it a shadow of justice in it ; because, 
if it be true, as they say, that the challenged may choose the 
weapons, the other has no right to choose such as will prevent 
and keep him from winning. My decision, therefore, is that 
the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and correct himself, 
and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here or there, as 
he pleases, and as suits him best ; and being in this way reduced 
to nine stone weight, he will make himself equal and even with 
nine stone of his opponent, and they will be able to run on 
equal terms.” ’ ' 

By all that ’s good,” said one of the peasants as he heard 
Sancho’s decision, but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, 
and given judgment like a canon ! But I ’ll be bound the fat 
man won’t part with an ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven 
stone.” 

The best plan will be for them not to run,” said another, 
so that neither the thin man break down under the weight, 
nor the fat one strip himself of his flesh ; let half the wager 
be spent in wine, and let ’s take these gentlemen to the tavern 
where there ’s the best, and ‘ over me be the cloak when it 
rains.’ ”2 

■ I thank you, sirs,” said Don Quixote ; but I cannot stop' 
for an instant, for' sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force 

, ^ Tbe story is in Alciati,.but Cervantes mo doubt got it from the great 
opanisb *' Joe Miller,” the Floresta Espafiola of Melcbor de Santa Cruz. 
^Prov. 37. 


460 


DON QUIXOTE. 


me to seem discourteous and to travel apace ; ’’ and spurring 
E-ocinante he pushed on, leaving them wondering at what they 
had seen and heard, at his own strange figure and at the 
shrewdness of his servant, for such they took Sancho to be ; 
and another of them observed, If the servant is so clever, 
what must the master be ? I ’ll bet, if they are going to Sala- 
manca to study, they ’ll come to be alcaldes of the court in a 
trice ; for it ’s a mere joke — only to read and read, and have 
interest and good luck ; and before a man knows where he is 
he finds himself with a staff in his hand or a mitre on his 
head.” 

That night master and man passed out into the fields in the 
open air, and the next day as they were pursuing their journey 
they saw coming towards them a man on foot with alforjas 
slung over his shoulder and a javelin or spiked staff in his hand, 
the very cut of a foot courier ; who, as soon as he came close to 
Don Quixote, increased his pace and half running came up to 
him, and embracing his right thigh, for he could reach no 
higher, exclaimed with evident pleasure, 0 Senor Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my 
lord the duke when he knows your worship is coming back to 
his castle, for he is still there with my lady the duchess ! ” 

“ I do not recognize you, friend,” said Don Quixote, nor do 
I know who you are, unless you tell me.” 

I am Tosilos, my lord the duke’s lackey, Senor Don 
Quixote,” replied the courier ; he who refused to fight your 
worship about marrying the daughter of Dona Kodriguez.” 

“ God bless me ! ” exclaimed Don Quixote ; ^Ms it possible 
that you are he whom mine enemies the enchanters changed 
into the lackey you speak of in order to rob me of the honor 
of that battle ? ” 

“ Nonsense, good sir ! ” said the messenger ; there was no 
enchantment or transformation at all; I entered the lists 
just as much lackey Tosilos as I came out of them lackey 
Tosilos. I thought to marry without fighting, for the girl had 
taken my fancy ; but my scheme had a very different result, 
for as soon as your worship had left the castle my lord the 
duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given me for having 
acted contrary to the orders he gave me before engaging in the 
combat ; and the end of the whole affair is that the girl has 
become a nun, and Dona Eodriguez has gone back to Castile, 
and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of letters 


CHAPTER LXVL 


461 


for the viceroy which my master is sending him. If your 
worship would like a drop, sound though warm, I have a gourd 
here full of the best, and some scraps of Tronchon cheese that 
will serve as a provocative and wakener of your thirst if so be 
it is asleep.” 

I take the offer,” said Sancho ; no more compliments 
about it ; pour out, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters 
in the Indies.” 

Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote ; and the greatest booby on earth, not to 
be able to see that this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a 
sham one ; stop with him and take thy fill ; I will go on slowly 
and wait for thee to come up with me.” 

The lackey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his 
scraps, and taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho 
seated themselves on the. green grass, and in peace and good 
fellowship finished off the contents of the alforjas down to the 
bottom, so resolutely that they licked the wrapper of the let- 
ters, merely because it smelt of cheese. 

Said Tosilos to Sancho, Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, 
this master of thine ought to be a madman.” 

Ought ! ” said Sancho ; he owes no man anything ; he 
pays for everything, particularly when the coin is madness. 
E see it plain enough, and I tell him so plain enough ; but 
what ’s the use ? especially now that it is all over with him, 
for here he is beaten by the Knight of the White Moon.” 

Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened to him, 
but Sancho replied that it would not be good manners to leave 
his master waiting for him ; and that some other day if they 
met there would be time enough for that ; and then getting up, 
after shaking his doublet and brushing the crumbs out of his 
beard, he drove Dapple on before him, and bidding adieu to 
Tosilos left him and rejoined his master, who was waiting for 
him under the shade of a tree. 


462 


DON QUIXOTE, 


CHAPTEE LXVIL 

OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN 
SHEPHERD AND TO TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE 
THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS 
RUNNING ITS COURSE ; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECT- 
ABLE AND HAPPY. 

If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote 
before he had been overthrown, a great many more harassed 
him since his fall. He was under the shade of a tree, as has 
been said, and there, like flies on honey, thoughts came crowd- 
ing upon him and stinging him. Some of them turned upon 
the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the life he was 
about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up and 
spoke in high praise of the generous disposition of the lackey 
Tosilos. 

Is it possible, Sancho,’’ said Don Quixote, that thou dost 
still think that he yonder is a real lackey ? Apparently it has 
escaped thy memory that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and 
transformed into a peasant wench, and the Knight of the Mir- 
rors into the bachelor Carrasco ; all the work of the enchanters 
that persecute me. But tell me now, didst thou ask this Tosilos, 
as thou callest him, what has become of Altisidora, did she weep 
over my absence, or has she already consigned to oblivion the 
love thoughts that used to afilict her when I was present ? ” 

“ The thoughts that I had,” said Sancho, were not such as 
to leave time for asking fool’s questions. Body o’ me, sefior ! 
is your worship in a condition now to inquire into other people’s 
thoughts, above all love thoughts ? ” 

Look ye, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, there is a great 
difference between what is done out of love and what is done 
out of gratitude. A knight may very possibly be proof against 
love ; but it is impossible, strictly speaking, for him to be un- 
grateful. Altisidora, to all appearance, loved me truly ; she 
gave me the three kerchiefs thou knowest of ; she wept at my 
departure, she cursed me, she abused me, casting shame to the 
winds she bewailed herself in public ; all signs that she adored 
me ; for the wrath of lovers always ends in curses. I had no 
hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for mine are given 
to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are like those 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


463 


of the fairies/ illusory and deceptive ; all I can give her is the 
place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice, however, 
to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art wrong- 
ing by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that 
flesh — would that I saw it eaten by wolves — which would 
rather keep itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor 
lady.’^ 

Senor,’’ replied Sancho, if the truth is to be told, I can- 
not persuade myself that the whipping of my backside has 
anything to do with the disenchantment of the enchanted ; it 
is like saying, < If your head aches rub ointment on your 
knees ; ’ at any rate I ’ll make bold to swear that in all the 
histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has 
read you have never come across anybody disenchanted by 
whipping ; but whether or no I '11 whip myself when I have a 
fancy for it, and the opportunity serves for scourging myself 
comfortably.” 

God grant it,” said Don Quixote ; “ and Heaven give 
thee grace to take it to heart and own the obligation thou art 
under to help my lady, who is thine also, inasmuch as thou art 
mine.” 

As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came 
to the very same spot where they had been trampled on by the 
bulls. Don Quixote recognized it, and said he to Sancho, 
This is the meadow where Ave came upon those gay shepherd- 
esses and gallant shepherds who were trying to revive and 
imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it was 
happy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it, 
Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for 
the time I have to live in retirement. I will buy some ewes 
and everything else requisite for the pastoral calling ; and, I 
under the name of the shepherd Quixotiz, and thou as the shep- 
herd Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and meadows 
singing songs here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the 
crystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. 
The oaks will yield us their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, 
the trunks of the hard cork-trees a seat, the willows shade, the 
roses perfume, the wide-spread meadows carpets tinted with a 
thousand dyes ; the clear pure air will give us breath, the moon 
and stars lighten the darkness of the night for us, song shall 
be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will supply us with 
^ The Spanish duendes are, however, more akin to brownies than fairies. 


464 


DON QUIXOTE. 


verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make ourselves 
famed forever, not only in this but in ages to come/^ 

Egad,^^ said Sancho, but that sort of life squares, nay 
corners, with my notions ; and what is more the bachelor Sam^ 
son Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber won’t have well 
seen it before they ’ll want to follow it and turn shepherds 
along with us ; and God grant it may not come into the curate’s 
head to join the sheepfold too, he ’s so jovial and fond of en- 
joying himself.” 

Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
“ and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral 
fraternity, as no doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd 
Samsonino, or perhaps the shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the 
barber may call himself Niculoso, as old Boscan formerly was 
called Nemoroso; ^ as for the curate I don’t know what name 
we can fit to him unless it be something derived from his title, 
and we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherd- 
esses whose lovers we shall be, we can pick names as we would 
pears ; and as my lady’s name does just as well for a shep- 
herdess’s as for a princess’s, I need not trouble myself to look 
for one that would suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thou 
canst give what name thou wilt.” 

I don’t mean to give her any but Teresona,” said Sancho, 
which will go well with her stoutness and with her own right 
name, as she is called Teresa ; ^ and then when I sing her praises 
in my verses I ’ll show how chaste my passion is, for I ’m not 
going to look for better bread than ever came from wheat in 
other men’s houses.® It won’t do for the curate to have a 
shepherdess, for the sake of good example ; and if the bach- 
elor chooses to have one, that is his lookout.” 

God bless me, Sancho my friend ! ” said Don Quixote, 
what a life we shall lead ! What hautboys and Zamora bag- 
pipes we shall hear, what tabors, timbrels, and rebecs ! And 
then if among all these different sorts of music that of the 
albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral instruments will be 
there.” 

What are albogues ? ” asked Sancho, for I never in my 
life heard tell of them or saw them.” 

*i.e. by Garcilaso in Eclogue I. (nemus = losque) ; but Herrera, Gar- 
cilaso’s editor, says Antonio de Fonseca was meant ; and Saa de Miranda, 
the Garcilaso of Portugal, who was a contemporary, holds that Nemoroso 
was Garcilaso himself. 

* The termination ona is augmentative. * Prov. 171. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


465 


Albogues/^ said Don Quixote, are brass plates like candle^ 
sticks that struck against one another on the hollow side make 
a noise which, if not very pleasing or harmonious, is not dis- 
agreeable and accords very well with the rude notes of the 
bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue is Morisco, as are all 
those in our Spanish tongue that begin with al; for example, 
almohazaj almorzar, alhombra, alguacll, alhucema, almacerif 
aleancia, and others of the same sort, of which there are 
not many more; our language has only three that are Mo- 
risco and end in which are hovcegtii, zaquizami, and maravedi; 
alheli and alfaqui are seen to be Arabic, as well by the al 
at the beginning as by the i they end with. I mention this 
incidentally, the chance allusion to albogues having reminded 
me of it ; and it will be of great assistance to us in the 
perfect practice of this calling that I am something of a 
poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the bachelor Samson 
Carrasco is an accomplished one. Of the curate I say nothing ; 
but I will wager he has some spice of the poet in him, and 
no doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or most of 
them, are guitar players and stringers of verses. I will be- 
wail my separation ; thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant 
lover; the shepherd Carrascon will figure as a rejected one, 
and the curate Curiambro as whatever may please him best ; 
and so all will go as gayly as heart could wish.” 

To this Sancho made answer, I am so unlucky, senor, that 
I ’m afraid the -day will never come when I shall see myself at 
such a calling. 0 what neat spoons I fil make when I ’m a shep- 
herd ! What messes, creams, garlands, pastoral odds and ends ! 
And if they don’t get me a name for wisdom, they ’ll not fail to 
get me one for ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica will bring 
us our dinner to the pasture. But stay — she ’s good-looking, 
and shepherds there are with more mischief than simplicity in 
them ; I would not have her < come for wool and go back 
shorn ; ’ ^ love-making and lawless desires are just as com- 
mon in the fields as in the cities, and in • shepherds’ shanties 
as in royal palaces ; < do away with the cause, you do away 
with the sin,’ ^ and ^ if eyes don’t see heart don’t break,’ ^ and 
< better a clear escape than good men’s prayers.’ ” ^ 

A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho,” exclaimed Don Quixote ; 
« any one of those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain 
thy meaning ; many a time have I recommended thee not to be 

‘ Prov. 124. ^ Prov. 46. * Prov, 159. * Prov. 212. 


VoL. II. — 30 


466 


DON QUIXOTE. 


so lavish with proverbs and to exercise some moderation in 
delivering them ; but it seems to me it is only preaching in the 
desert ; ‘ my mother beats me and I go on with my tricks/ ^ 

It seems to me/’ said Sancho, “ that your worship is like 
the common saying, < Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get 
away, blackbreech. ’ ^ You chide me for uttering proverbs, and 
you string them in couples yourself.” 

Observe, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “ I bring in prov- 
erbs to the purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a 
ring to the finger ; thou bringest them in by the head and 
shoulders, in such a way that thou dost drag them in, rather 
than introduce them ; if I am not mistaken, I have told thee 
already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from the experi- 
ence and observation of our wise men of old ; but the proverb 
that is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a 
maxim. But enough of this ; as nightfall is drawing on let us 
retire some little distance from the high road to pass the night ; 
what is in store for us to-morrow God knoweth.” 

They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much 
against Sancho’s will, who turned over in his mind the hard- 
ships attendant upon knight-errantry in woods and forests, 
even though at times plenty presented itself in castles and 
houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda’s, at the wedding of Ca- 
macho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno’s ; he reflected, 
however, that it could not be always day, nor always night ; 
and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in 
waking. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE. 

The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon 
in the sky it was not in a quarter where she could be seen ; 
for sometimes the lady Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, 
and leaves the mountains all black and the valleys in darkness. 
Don Quixote obeyed nature so far as to sleep his first sleep, 
but did not give way to the second, very different from Sancho, 
who never had any second, because with him sleep lasted from 
night till morning, wherein he showed what a sound constitu- 
* Prov. 45. 2 prov. 215. 


CHAPTER LXVIIL 


467 


don and how few cares he had. Don Qnixote^s cares kept 
him restless, so much so that he awoke Sancho and said to 
him, I am amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy tem- 
perament. I believe thou art made of marble or hard brass, 
incapable of any emotion or feeling whatever. I lie awake 
while thou sleepest, I weep while thou singest. I am faint 
with fasting while thou art sluggish and torpid from pure re- 
pletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the sufferings 
and feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for the sake 
of appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude 
of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some 
sort. Else as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with 
a good heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four 
hundred lashes on account of Dulcinea’s disenchantment score ; 
and this I entreat of thee, making it a request, for I have no 
desire to come to grips with thee a second time, as I know thou 
hast a heavy hand. As soon as thou hast laid them on we will 
pass the rest of the night, I singing my separation, thou thy 
constancy, making a beginning at once with the pastoral life 
we are to follow at our village.*^ 

Senor,’’ replied Sancho, I’m no monk to get up out of 
the middle of my sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to 
me that one can pass from one extreme of the pain of whipping 
to the other of music. Will your worship let me sleep, and 
not worry me about whipping myself ? or you ’ll make me swear 
never to touch a hair of my doublet, not to say my flesh.” 

0 hard heart ! ” said Don Quixote, 0 pitless squire ! 0 

bread ill-bestowed and favors ill-acknowledged, both those I 
have done thee and those I mean to do thee ! Through me 
hast thou seen thyself a governor, and through me thou seest 
thyself in immediate expectation of being a count, or obtaining 
some other equivalent title, for I — post tenehras spero lucemP 

1 don’t know what that is,” said Sancho ; all I know is 
that so long as I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, 
trouble nor glory ; and good luck betide him that invented 
sleep, the cloak that covers over all a man’s thoughts, the food 
that removes hunger, the drink that drives away thirst, the fire 
that warms the cold, the cold that tempers the heat, and, to 
wind up with, the universal coin wherewith everything is 
bought, the weight and balance that makes the shepherd 
equal with the king and the fool with the wise man. Sleep, 
I have heard say, has only one fault, that it is like death ; for 


468 


DON QUIXOTE. 


between a sleeping man and a dead man there is very little 
difference.” 

Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho,” 
said Don Quixote ; and here I begin to see the truth of the 
proverb thou dost sometimes quote, ^Not with whom thou art 
bred, but with whom thou art fed.’ ” ^ 

Ha, by my life, master mine,” said Sancho, it ’s not I that 
am stringing proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your 
worship’s mouth faster than from mine ; only there is this dif- 
ference between mine and yours, that yours are well-timed and 
mine are untimely ; but anyhow, they are all proverbs.” 

At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise 
that seemed to spread through all the valleys around. Don 
Quixote stood up and laid his hand upon his sword, and Sancho 
ensconced himself under Dapple and put the bundle of armor 
on one side of him and the ass’s pack-saddle on the other, in 
fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote’s perturbation. Each 
instant the noise increased and came nearer to the two terrified 
men, or at least to one, for as to the other, his courage is known 
to all. The fact of the matter was that some men were taking 
above six hundred pigs to sell at a fair, and were on their way 
with them at that hour, and so great was the noise they made 
and their grunting and blowing, that they deafened the ears of 
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and they could not make 
out what it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came on in 
a surging mass, and without showing any respect for Don 
Quixote’s dignity or Sancho’s, passed right over the pair of 
them, demolishing Sancho’s intrenchments, and not only up- 
setting Don Quixote but sweeping Rocinante off his feet into 
the bargain ; and what with the trampling and the grunting, 
and the pace to wh?ch the unclean beasts went, pack-saddle, 
armor. Dapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the ground 
and Sancho and Don Quixote at their wits’ end. 

Sancho got up as best he could and begged his master to 
give him his sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of 
those dirty unmannerly pigs, for he had by this time found 
out that that was what they were. 

Let them be, my friend,” said Don Quixote ; this insult 
is the penalty of my sin ; and it is the righteous chastisement 
of Heaven that jackals should devour a vanquished knight, and 
wasps sting him and pigs trample him under foot.” 

^Prov. 153. 


CHAPTER LXVIIL 


469 


I suppose it is the chastisement of Heaven, too,” said 
Sancho, that flies should prick the squires of vanquished 
knights, and lice eat them, and hunger assail them. If we 
squires were the sons of the knights we serve, or their very near 
relations, it would be no wonder if the penalty of their mis- 
deeds overtook us, even to the fourth generation. But what 
have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes ? Well, well, let ’s lie 
down again and sleep out what little of the night there ’s left, 
and God will send us dawn and we shall be all right.” 

Sleep thou, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, for thou wast 
born to sleep as I was born to watch ; and during the time it 
now wants of dawn I will give a loose rein to my thoughts, 
and seek a vent for them in a little madrigal which, unknown 
to thee, I composed in my head last night.” 

I should think,” said Sancho, “ that the thoughts that allow 
one to make verses cannot be of great consequence ; let your 
worship string verses as much as you like and I ’ll sleep as 
much as I can ; ” and forthwith, taking the space of ground he 
required, he muffled himself up and fell into a sound sleep, 
undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble of any sort. Don Qui- 
xote, propped up against the trunk of a beech or a cork tree — • 
for Cid Hamet does not specify what kind of a tree it was 
— sang in this strain to the accompaniment of his own sighs : 

When in my mind 

I muse, 0 Love, upon thy cruelty, 

To death I flee. 

In hope therein the end of all to find. 

But drawing near 

That welcome haven in my sea of woe, 

Such joy I know. 

That life revives, and still I linger here. 

Thus life doth slay. 

And death again to life restoreth me ; 

Strange destiny. 

That deals with life and death as with a play I ” 

He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few 
tears, just like one whose heart was pierced with grief at his 
defeat and his separation from Dulcinea. 


470 


DON QUIXOTE, 


And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the 
eyes with his beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook 
himself and stretched his lazy limbs, and seeing the havoc the 
pigs had made with his stores he cursed the drove, and more 
besides. Then the pair resumed their journey, and as evening 
closed in they saw coming towards them some ten men on 
horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote’s heart beat 
quick and Sancho’s quailed with fear, for the persons approach- 
ing them carried lances and bucklers, and were in very 
warlike guise. Don Quixote turned to Sancho and said, If I 
could make use of my weapons, and my promise had not tied 
my hands, I would count this host that comes against us but 
cakes and fancy bread ; ^ but perhaps it may prove something 
different from what we apprehend.” The men on horseback 
now came up, and raising their lances surrounded Don Quixote 
in silence, and pointed them at his back and breast, menacing 
him with death. One of those on foot, putting his finger to 
his lips as a sign to him to be silent, seized Eocinante’s bridle 
and drew him out of the road, and the others driving Sancho 
and Dapple before them, and all maintaining a strange silence, 
followed in the steps of the one who led Don Quixote. The 
latter two or three times attempted to ask where they were tak- 
ing him to and what they wanted, but the instant he began to 
open his lips they threatened to close them with the points of 
their lances ; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment 
he seemed about to speak one of those on foot punched him with 
a goad, and Dapple likewise, as if he too wanted to talk. 
Night set in, they quickened their pace, and the fears of the 
two prisoners grew greater, especially as they heard themselves 
assailed with — ■ Get on, ye Troglodytes ; ” Silence, ye bar- 
barians ; ” March, ye cannibals ; ” No murmuring, ye Scyth- 
ians ; ” Don’t open your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, 
ye bloodthirsty lions,” and such-like names with which their 
captors harassed the ears of the wretched master and man. 
Sancho went along saying to himself, We, tortolites, barbers^ 
animals ! I don’t like those names at all ; ^ it ’s in a bad wina 
our corn is being winnowed ; ’ ^ ^ misfortune comes upon us all 
at once like sticks on a dog,’ * and God grant it may be no worse 
than them that this unlucky adventure has in store for us.” 

Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of 
all his wits to make out what could be the meaning of these 
» Prov. 229. * Prov. 245. » Pror. 123. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


471 


abusive names they called them, and the only conclusion he 
could arrive at was that there was no good to be hoped for 
and much evil to be feared. And now, about an hour after 
midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at once 
was the duke’s, where they had been but a short time before. 
God bless me ! ” said he, as he recognized the mansion, 
what does this mean ? It is all courtesy and politeness in 
this house ; but with the vanquished good turns into evil, and 
evil into worse.” 

They entered the chief court of the castle and found it pre- 
pared and fitted up in a style that added to their amazement 
and doubled their fears, as will be seen in the following 
chapter. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE 
THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF 
THIS GREAT HISTORY. 

The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on 
foot, without a moment’s delay taking up Sancho and Don Qui- 
xote bodily, they carried them into the court, all round which 
near a hundred torches fixed in sockets were burning, besides 
above five hundred lamps in the corridors, so that in spite of 
the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of daylight could 
not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque, 
raised about two yards above the ground and covered com- 
pletely by an immense canopy of black velvet, and on the steps 
all round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred 
silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead 
body of a damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death 
itself look beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a 
cushion of brocade and crowned with a garland of sweet-smell- 
ing flowers of divers sorts, her hands crossed upon her bosom, 
and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory.^ On one 
side of the court was erected a stage, where upon two chairs were 
seated two persons who from having crowns on their heads 
and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings of some sort, 

* The dried palm branch preserved from Easter Sunday that may be seen 
in almost every Spanish house. 


472 


DON QUIXOTE. 


whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage, which 
was reached by steps, were two other chairs on which the men 
carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in 
silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too 
were to be silent ; which, however, they would have been with- 
out any signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them 
tongue-tied. And now two persons of distinction, who were at 
once recognized by Don Quixote as his hosts the duke and 
duchess, ascended the stage attended by a numerous suite, and 
seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, 
as they seemed to be. Who would not be amazed at this ? Nor 
was this all, for Don Quixote had perceived that the dead body 
on the catafalque was that of the fair Altisidora. As the duke 
and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote and Sancho rose 
and made them a profound obeisance, which they returned by 
bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official crossed 
over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black 
buckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his 
cap put upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the 
sentence of the Holy Office wear ; and whispered in his ear that 
he must not open his lips, or they would put a gag upon him, 
or take his life. Sancho surveyed himself from head to foot 
and saw himself all ablaze with flames ; but as they did not 
burn him he did not care two farthings for them. He took off 
the mitie and seeing it painted with devils he put it on again, 
saying to himself, “ Well, so far those don’t burn me nor do 
these carry me off.” Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though 
fear had got the better of his faculties, he could not help smil- 
ing to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from under- 
neath the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a low sweet sound 
of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for there 
silence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. 
Then, beside the pillow of wffiat seemed to be the dead body, 
suddenly appeared a fair youth in a Eoman habit, who, to the 
accompaniment of a harp which he himself played, sang in a 
sweet and clear voice these two stanzas : 

<< While fair Altisidora, who the sport 

Of cold Don Quixote’s cruelty hath been, 

Eeturns to life, and in this magic court 

The dames in sables come to grace the scene. 

And while her matrons all in seemly sort 


CHAPTER LX IX, 


m 


My lady robes in baize and bombazine, 

Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing 

With deftex quill than touched the Thracian string.^ 

“ But not in life alone, methinks, to me 

Belongs the office ; Lady, when my tongue 
Is cold in death, believe me unto thee 
My voice shall raise its tributary song. 

My soul, from this strait prison-house set free, 

As o^er the Stygian lake it floats along. 

Thy praises singing still shall hold its way. 

And make the waters of oblivion stay.’* 

At this point one of the* two that looked like kings exclaimed, 
“ Enough, enough, divine singer ! It would be an endless task 
to put before us now the death and the charms of the peerless 
Altisidora, not dead as the ignorant world imagines, but living 
in the voice of fame and in the penance which Sancho Panza, 
here present, has to undergo to restore her to the long-lost 
light. Do thou, therefore, 0 Khadamanthus, who sittest in 
judgment with me in the murky caverns of Dis, as thou know- 
est all that the inscrutable fates have decreed touching the 
resuscitation of this damsel, announce and declare it at once, 
that the happiness we look forward to from her restoration be 
no longer deferred.” 

No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Bhadamanthus 
said this, than Bhadamanthus rising up said, Ho, officials of 
this house, high and low, great and small, make haste hither 
one and all, and print on Sancho’ s face four-and-twenty 
smacks, and give him twelve pinches and six pin-thrusts in the 
back and arms ; for upon this ceremony depends this restora- 
tion of Altisidora.” 

On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, By all 
that ’s good, I ’ll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as 
turn Moor. Body o’ me ! What has handling my face got to 
do with the resurrection of this damsel ? ^ The old woman 

took kindly to the blits ; ’ ^ they enchant Dulcinea, and whip 
me in order to disenchant her ; Altisidora dies of ailments 
God was pleased to send her, and to bring her to life again 

* i.e. that of Orpheus. The second stanza is Garcilaso’s ; it is the 
lecond of his third Eclogue. 

* Prov. 244. In full it is, " and did not leave green or dry.” Spanish 
oledos^ Fr. blette ; used in the South as a substitute for spinach. 


474 


DON QUIXOTE, 


they must give me four-and-tweiity smacks, and prick holes in 
my body with pins, and raise weals on my arms with pinches ! 
Try those jokes on a brother-in-law;^ ^l^m an old dog, and 
“ tus, tus is no use with me/ * 

Thou shalt die,” said Rhadamanthus in a xoud voice ; re- 
lent, thou tiger ; humble thyself, proud Nimrod ; suffer and be 
silent, for no impossibilities are asked of thee ; it is not for 
thee to inquire into the difficulties in this matter ; smacked 
thou must be, pricked thou shalt see thyself, and with pinches 
thou must be made to howl. Ho, I say, officials, obey my 
orders ; or by the word of an honest man, ye shall see what ye 
were born for.” 

At this some duennas, advancing across the court, made their 
appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with 
spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four 
fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fash- 
ion now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them 
than, bellowing like a bull, he exclaimed, I might let mj^self 
be handled by all the world ; but allow duennas to touch me — 
not a bit of it ! Scratch my face, as my master was served in 
this very castle ; run me through the body with burnished dag- 
gers ; pinch my arms with red-hot pinchers ; I ’ll bear all in 
patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won’t let duennas 
touch me, though the devil should carry me off!” 

Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, 
Have patience, my son, and gratify these noble persons, and 
give all thanks to Heaven that it has infused such virtue into 
thy person, that by its sufferings thou canst disenchant the 
enchanted and restore to life the dead.” 

The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he^ having be- 
come more tractable and reasonable, settling himself well in 
his chair presented his face and beard to the first, who de- 
livered him a smack very stoutly laid on, and then made him 
a low courtesy. 

“ Less politeness and less paint, senor duenna,” said Sancho ; 
by God your hands smell of vinegar-wash.” 

In fine, all the duennas smacked him and several others of 
the household pinched him ; but what he could not stand was 
being pricked by the pins ; and so, apparently out of patience, 
he started up out of his chair, and seizing a lighted torch that 
stood near him fell upon the duennas and the whole set of his 
* Prov. 65. * Prov. 183. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


475 


tormentors, exclaiming, Begone, ye ministers of hell ; I ^m 
not made of brass not to feel such out-of-the-way tortures.” 

At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of hav- 
ing been so long lying on her back, turned on her side ; seeing 
which the bystanders cried out almost with one voice, Altisi- 
dora is alive ! Altisidora lives ! ” 

Khadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the 
object they had in view was now attained. When Don Quixote 
saw Altisidora move, he went on his knees to Sancho saying to 
him, Now is the time, son of my bowels, not to call thee my 
squire, for thee to give thyself some of those lashes thou art 
bound to lay on for the disenchantment of Dulciiiea. Now, I 
say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is ripe, and en- 
dowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for from 
thee.” 

To which Sancho made answer, That ’s trick upon trick, I 
think, and not honey upon pancakes ; a nice thing it would be 
for a whipping to come now, on the top of pinches, smacks, 
and pin-proddings ! You had better take a big stone and tie it 
round my neck, and pitch me into a well ; I should not mind 
it much, if I hn to be always made the cow of the wedding * for 
the cure of other people’s ailments. Leave me alone ; or else by 
God I ’ll fling the whole thing to the dogs, come what may.” 

Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as 
she did so the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, 
and the voices of all present exclaiming, Long life to Altisi- 
dora ! long life to Altisidora ! ” The duke and duchess and the 
kings Minos and E-hadamanthus stood up, and all, together 
with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to receive her and 
take her down from the catafalque ; and she, making as though 
she were recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke 
and duchess and to the kings, and looking sideways at Don 
Quixote, said to him, God forgive thee, insensible knight, for 
through thy cruelty I have been, to me it seems, more than a 
thousand years in the other world; and to thee, the most 
compassionate squire upon earth, I render thanks for the life I 
am now in possession of. From this day forth, friend Sancho, 
count as thine six smocks of mine which I bestow upon thee, 
to make as many shirts for thyself, and if they are not all 
quite whole, at any rate they are all clean.” 

Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude kneeling, and with the 
^ The cow that is to be killed for the wedding feast ; the one that suffers. 


476 


DON QUIXOTE, 


mitre in his hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and 
give him back his cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. 
Sancho begged the duke to let them leave him the robe and 
mitre ; as he wanted to take them home for a token and me- 
mento of that unexampled adventure. The duchess said they 
must leave them with him ; for he knew already what a great 
friend of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the 
court should be cleared, and that all should retire to their 
chambers, and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be con- 
ducted to their old quarters. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-XIXE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS IN- 
DISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS 
HISTORY. 

Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with 
Don Quixote, a thing he would have gladly excused if he could, 
for he knew very well that with questions and answers his 
master would not let him sleep, and he was in no humor for 
talking much, as he still felt the pain of his late martyrdom, 
which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it would 
have been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in 
that luxurious chamber in company. And so well founded did 
his apprehension prove, and so correct was his anticipation, that 
scarcely had his master got into bed when he said, What dost 
thou think of to-night’s adventure, Sancho ? Great and mighty 
is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own 
eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, 
nor by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the 
thought of the sternness and scorn with which I have always 
treated her.” 

She might have died and welcome,” said Sancho, when 
she pleased and how she pleased ; and she might have left me 
alone, for I never made her fall in love or scorned her. I don’t 
know nor can I imagine how the recovery of Altisidora, a dam- 
sel more fanciful than wise, can have, as I have said before, 
anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. Now I 
begin to see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and 


CHAPTER LXX, 


477 


enchanted people in the world ; and may God deliver me from 
them, since I can’t deliver myself ; and so I beg of your worship 
to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless you 
want me to throw myself out of the window.” 

Sleep, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, if the pin- 
prodding and pinches thou hast received and the smacks ad- 
ministered to thee will let thee.” 

No pain came up to the insult of the smacks,” said Sancho, 
for the simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, 
that gave them to me ; but once more I entreat your worship 
to let me sleep, for sleep is relief from misery to those who 
are miserable when awake.” 

Be it so, and God be with thee,” said Don Quixote. 

They fell asleep, both of them, and Cid Hamet, the author of 
this great history, took this opportunity to record and relate 
what it was that induced the duke and duchess to get up the 
elaborate plot that has been described. The bachelor Samson 
Carrasco, he says, not forgetting how he as the Knight of the 
Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, 
which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to try 
his hand again, hoping for better luck than he had before ; and 
so, having learned where Don Quixote was from the page who 
brought the letter and present to Sancho’s wife, Teresa Panza, he 
got himself new armor and another horse, and put a white moon 
upon his shield, and to carry his arms he had a mule led by a 
peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should 
be recognized by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the 
duke’s castle, and the duke informed him of the road and route 
Don Quixote had taken with the intention of being present at 
the jousts at Saragossa. He told him, too, of the jokes he had 
practised upon him, and of the device for the disenchantment of 
Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho’s backside ; and finally he 
gave him an account of the trick Sancho had played upon his 
master, making him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted and 
turned into a country wench ; and of how the duchess, his wife, 
had persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, 
inasmuch as Dulcinea was really enchanted ; at which the bache- 
lor laughed not a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness 
and simplicity of Sancho as at the length to which Don 
Quixote’s madness went. The duke begged of him if he found 
him (whether he overcame him or not) to return that way 
and let him know the result. This the bachelor did j he set 


4T8 


DON QUIXOTE. 


out in quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, 
he went on, and how he fared has been already told. He re- 
turned to the duke’s castle and told him all, what the condi- 
tions of the combat were, and how Don Quixote was now, like 
a loyal knight-errant, returning to keep his promise of retiring 
to his village for a year, by which time, said the bachelor, he 
might perhaps be cured of his madness ; for that was the object 
that had led him to adopt these disguises, as it was a sad 
thing for a gentleman of such good parts as Don Quixote to 
be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke, and 
went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, who 
was coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the op- 
portunity of practising this mystification upon him ; so much 
did he enjoy everything connected with Sancho and Don 
Quixote. He had the roads about the castle far and near, 
everywhere he thought Don Quixote was likely to pass on his 
return, occupied by large numbers of his servants on foot and on 
horseback, who were to bring him to the castle by fair means or 
foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to the 
duke, who, having already settled what was to be done, as soon 
as he heard of his arrival, ordered the torches and lamps in the 
court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on the catafalque 
with all the pomp and ceremony that has been described, the 
whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed 
but little from reality. And Cid Hamet says, moreover, for his 
part he considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the 
victims of it, and that the duke and duchess were not two 
fingers’ breadth removed from being something like fools them- 
selves when they took such pains to make game of a pair 
of fools. 

As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other 
lying awake occupied with his desultory thoughts, when day- 
light came to them bringing with it the desire to rise ; for the 
lazy down was never a delight to Don Quixote, victor or van- 
quished. Altisidora, come back from death to life as Don 
Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady, 
entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn 
on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta embroidered 
with gold fiowers, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, 
and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don Quixote, 
disconcerted and in confusion at her appearance, huddled him- 
self up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the 


CHAPTER LXX. 


479 


sheets and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to 
offer her any civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at 
the head of the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a 
feeble, soft voice, When women of rank and modest maidens 
trample honor under foot, and give a loose to the tongue that 
breaks through every impediment, publishing abroad the in- 
most secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to sore extremi- 
ties. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, 
crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffer- 
ing and virtuous, and so much so that my heart broke with 
grief and I lost my life. For the last two days I have been 
dead, slain by the thought of the cruelty with which thou hast 
treated me, obdurate knight, 

O harder thou than marble to my plaint ; * 

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me ; and had 
it not been that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest 
upon the sufferings of this good squire, there I should have 
remained in the other world.” 

Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings 
of my ass, and I should have been obliged to him,” said 
Sancho. But tell me, senora — and may Heaven send you a 
tenderer lover than my master — what did you see in the other 
world ? What goes on in hell ? For of course that ’s where 
one who dies in despair is bound for.” 

To « tell you the truth,” said Altisidora, I cannot have 
died outright, for I did not go into hell ; had I gone in, it is 
very certain I should never have come out again, do what I 
might. The truth is, I came to the gate, where some dozen or 
so of devils were playing tennis, all in breeches and doublets, 
with falling collars trimmed with Flemish bone-lace, and ruffles 
of the same that served them for wristbands, with four fingers’ 
breadth of the arm exposed to make their hands look longer ; 
in their hands they held rackets of fire ; but what amazed me 
still more was that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, 
served them for tennis balls, a strange and marvellous thing ; 
this, however, did not astonish me so much as to observe that, 
although with players it is usual for the winners to be glad 
and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling, all 
were snarling, and all were cursing one another.” 

’ Garcilaso, Eclogue I. 


480 


DON QUIXOTE. 


That ’s no wonder/’ said Sancho ; for devils, whether play- 
ing or not, can never be content, win or lose.” 

Very likely,” said Altisidora; ^^but there is another thing 
that surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that 
was that no ball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a 
second time ; and it was wonderful the constant succession there 
was of books, new and old. To one of them, a brand-new, well- 
bound one, they gave such a stroke that they knocked the guts 
out of it and scattered the leaves about. ‘ Look what book that 
is,’ said one devil to another, and the other replied, ^ It is the 
Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha,” 
not by Cid Hamet, the original author, but by an Aragonese who 
by his own account is of Tordesillas.’ ^ Out of this with it,’ said 
the first, ^ and into the depths of hell with it out of my sight.’ 
Is it so bad ? ’ asked the other. ‘ So bad is it,’ said the first, 
' that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I could 
not have done it.’ They then went on with their game, knock- 
ing other books about ; and I, having heard them mention the 
name of Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to 
retain this vision in my memory.” 

A vision it must have been, no doubt,” said Don Quixote, 
for there is no other I in the world ; this history has been 
going about here for some time from hand to hand, but it does 
not stay long in any, for everybody gives it a taste of his foot. 
I am not disturbed by hearing that I am wandering in a fan- 
tastic shape in the darkness of the pit or in the daylight above, 
for I am not the one that history treats of. If it should be good, 
faithful, and true, it will have ages of life ; but if it should be 
bad, from its birth to its burial will not be a very long journey.” 

Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against 
Don Quixote, when he said to her, I have several times told 
you, senora, that it grieves me you should have set your affec- 
tions on me, as from mine they can only receive gratitude, but 
no return. I was born to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and 
the fates, if there are any, dedicated me to her j and to suppose 
that any other beauty can take the place she occupies in my 
heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank declaration 
should suffice to make you retire within the bounds of your 
modesty, for no one can bind himself to do impossibilities.” 

Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agita- 
tion, exclaimed, “ God’s life ! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, 
stone of a date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked 


CHAPTER LXX, 


481 


a favor when he has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I ’ll 
tear your eyes out ! Do you fancy, then, Don Vanquished, Don 
Cudgelled, that I died for your sake ? All that you have seen 
to-night has been make-believe ; I ’m not the woman to let the 
black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much less die ! ” 

That I can well believe,” said Sancho ; for all that about 
lovers pining to death is absurd ; they may talk of it, but as for 
doing it — Judas may believe that.” ^ 

While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, 
who had sung the two stanzas given above came in, and mak- 
ing a profound obeisance to Don Quixote said, Will your 
worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me in the number of 
your most faithful servants, for I have long been a great 
admirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of 
your achievements ? ” 

Will your worship tell me who you are,” replied Don 
Quixote, “ so that my courtesy may be answerable to your 
deserts ? ” 

The young man replied that he was the musician and song- 
ster of the night before. 

Of a truth,” said Don Quixote, your worship has a most 
excellent voice ; but what you sang did not seem to me very 
much to the purpose ; for what have Garcilaso’s stanzas to do 
with the death of this lady ? ” 

Don’t be surprised at that,” returned the musician ; for 
with the callow poets of our day the way is for every one to 
write as he pleases and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be 
germane to the matter or not, and now-a-days there is no piece 
of silliness they can sing or write that is not set down to 
poetic license.” 

Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the 
duke and duchess, who came in to see him, and with them 
there followed a long and delightful conversation, in the course 
of which Sancho said so many droll and saucy things that he 
left the duke and duchess wondering not only at his simplicity 
but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their permission to 
take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a van- 
quished knight like himself it was fitter he should live in a 
pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very readily, 
and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good 
graces. 

’ Sancho’s version of Credat Judaus, 

VOL. II. — 31 


482 


DON QUIXOTE. 


He replied, Sefiora, let me tell your ladyship that this 
damsel’s ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it 
is honest and constant employment. She herself has told me 
that lace is worn in hell ; and as she must know how to 
make it, let it never be out of her hands ; for when she is 
occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image or im- 
ages of what she loves will not shift to and fro in her 
thoughts ; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my 
advice.” 

‘‘And mine,” added Sancho; “for I never in all my life 
saw a lace-maker that died for love ; when damsels are at 
work their minds are more set on finishing their tasks than on 
thinking of their loves. I speak from my own experience ; 
for when I hn digging I never think of my old woman ; I 
mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own 
eyelids.” 

“ You say well, Sancho,” said the duchess, “ and I will take 
care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward in 
needlework of some sort ; for she is extremely expert at it.” 

“ There is no occasion to have recourse to that remedy, 
senora,” said Altisidora ; “ for the mere thought of the cruelty 
with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice 
to blot him out of my memory without any other device; 
with your highness’s leave I will retire, not to have before 
my eyes, I won’t say his rueful countenance, but his abom- 
inable, ugly looks.” 

“ That reminds me of the common saying, that ‘ he that rails 
is ready to forgive,’ ” ' said the duke. 

Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a 
handkerchief, made an obeisance to master and mistress and 
quitted the room. 

“ 111 luck betide thee, poor damsel,” said Sancho, “ ill luck 
betide thee ! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush 
and a heart as hard as oak ; had it been me, i’ faith ‘ another 
cock would have crowed to thee.’ ” 

So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed 
himself and dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the 
same evening. 


* Prov. 122. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 


483 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIBB 
SANCHO ON THE WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE. 

The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very 
downcast in one respect and very happy in another. His sad- 
ness arose from his defeat, and his satisfaction from the thought 
of the virtue that lay in Sancho, as had been proved by the 
resurrection of Altisidora ; though it was with difficulty he could 
persuade himself that the love-smitten damsel had been really 
dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful, for it grieved 
him that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving him the 
smocks ; and turning this over in his mind he said to his mas- 
ter, Surely, senor, I hn the most unlucky doctor in the world ; 
there ’s many a physician that, after killing the sick man he had 
to cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only sign- 
ing a bit of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he 
makes up, and, there, his labor is over ; but with me, though to 
cure somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, 
pin-proddings,^ and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. 
Well, I swear by all that ^s good if they put another patient into 
my hands, they ’ll have to grease them for me before I cure him ; 
for < it ’s by his singing the abbot gets his dinner,’ ^ and I ’m 
not going to believe that Heaven has bestowed upon me the 
virtue I have, that I should deal it out to others all for 
nothing.” 

^‘Thou art right, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, 
and Altisidora has behaved very badly in not giving thee the 
smocks she promised; and although that virtue of thine is 
gratis data — as it has cost thee no study whatever, any more 
than such study as thy personal sufferings may be — I can say 
for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lashes 
on account of the disenchantment of Dulcinea, I would have 
given it to thee freely ere this. I am not sure, however, 
whether payment will comport with the cure, and I would not 
have the reward interfere with the medicine. Still, I think 
there will be nothing lost by trying it ; consider how much thou 
wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself 
down with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine.” 

• Prov. 2. 


484 


DON QUIXOTE. 


At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a 
palm’s breadth wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced 
in whipping himself, and said he to his master, ‘^Very well 
then, seiior, I ’ll hold myself in readiness to gratify your 
worship’s wishes if I ’m to profit by it ; for the love of my 
wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your 
worship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give 
myself.” 

“ If, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, I were to requite thee 
as the importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treas- 
ures of Venice, the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to 
pay thee. See what thou hast of mine, and put a price on 
each lash.” 

Of them,” said Sancho, there are three thousand three 
hundred and odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest 
remain ; let the five go for the odd ones, and let us take the 
three thousand three hundred, which at a quarter real apiece 
(for I will not take less though the whole world should bid 
me) make three thousand three hundred quarter reals ; the 
three thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, 
which make seven hundred and fifty reals ; and the three 
hundred make a hundred and fifty half reals, A^ich come to 
seventy-five reals, which added to the seven hundred and fifty 
make eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These I will 
stop out of what I have belonging to your worship, and I ’ll 
return home rich and content, though well whipped, for < there ’s 
no taking trout ’ ^ — but I say no more.” 

0 blessed Sancho ! 0 dear Sancho ! ” said Don Quixote ; 
how we shall be bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the 
days of our lives that Heaven may grant us ! If she returns 
to her lost shape (and it cannot be but that she will) her mis- 
fortune will have been good fortune, and my defeat a most 
happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou 
begin the scourging ? For if thou wilt make short work of it, 
I will give thee a hundred reals over and above.” 

When ? ” said Sancho ; this night without fail. Let 
your worship order it so that we pass it out of doors and in 
the open air, and I ’ll scarify myself.” 

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety 
in the world, came at last, though it seemed to him that the 
wheels of Apollo’s car had broken down, and that the day 
* Prov. 233. In full it is ” with dry breeches.” 


CHAPTER LXXL 


485 


was drawing itself out longer than usual, just as is the case 
with lovers, who never make the reckoning of their desires 
agree with time. They made their way at length in among 
some pleasant trees that stood a little distance from the road, 
and there vacating Rocinante’s saddle and Dapple’s pack- 
saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made 
their supper off Sancho’s stores, and he making a powerful 
and flexible whip out of Dapple’s halter and head-stall re- 
treated about twenty paces from his master among some beech 
trees. Don Quixote seeing him march off with such resolution 
and spirit, said to him, “ Take care, my friend, not to cut thy- 
self to pieces ; allow the lashes to wait for one another, and do 
not be in so great a hurry as to run thyself out of breath mid- 
way ; I mean, do not lay on so strenuously as to make thy life 
fail thee before thou hast reached the desired number ; and 
that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, I 
will station myself apart and count on my rosary here the 
lashes thou givest thyself. May Heaven help thee as thy good 
intention deserves.” 

^ Pledges don’t distress a good paymaster,’ ” ' said Sancho ; 
“ I mean to lay on in such a way as without killing myself to 
hurt myself, for in that, no doubt, lies the essence of this 
miracle.” 

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and 
snatching up the rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to 
count the lashes. He might have given himself six or eight 
when he began to think the joke no trifle, and its price very 
low ; and holding his hand for a moment, he told his master 
that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for each of 
those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real 
instead of a quarter. 

Go, on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened,” said 
Don Quixote ; for I double the stakes as to price.” 

In that case,” said Sancho, God’s hand be it, and let 
it rain lashes.” But the rogue no longer laid them on his 
shoulders, but laid on to the trees, with such groans every now 
and then, that one would have thought at each of them his 
soul was being plucked up by the roots. Don Quixote, touched 
to the heart, and fearing he might make an end of himself, 
and that through Sancho’s imprudence he might miss his own 
object, said to him, As thou livest, my friend, let the matter 
»Prov. 164. 


486 


DON QUIXOTE. 


rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, 
and it will be well to have patience ; ^ Zamora was not won in 
an hour/ ^ If I have not reckoned wrong thou hast given 
thyself over a thousand lashes ; that is enough for the present ; 
for the ass, to put it in homely phrase, bears the load, but not 
the overload.” ^ 

‘^No, no, sehor,” replied Sancho ; it shall never be said 
of me, ^ The money paid, the arms broken ; ^ ® go back a little 
further, your worship, and let me give myself at any rate a 
thousand lashes more ; for in a couple of bouts like this we 
shall have finished off the lot, and there will be even cloth to 
spare.’’ 

As thou art in such a willing mood,” said Don Quixote, 
may Heaven aid thee ; lay on and I ’ll retire.” 

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that 
he soon had the bark stripped off several trees, such was the 
severity with which he whipped himself ; and one time, raising 
his voice, and giving a beech a tremendous lash, he cried out, 
Here dies Samson, and all with him ! ” 

At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel 
lash, Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted 
halter that served him for a courbash, said to him, “ Heaven 
forbid, Sancho my friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose 
thy life, which is needed for the support of thy wife and chil- 
dren ; let Dulcinea wait for a better opportunity, and I will con- 
tent myself with a hope soon to be realized, and have patience 
until thou hast gained fresh strength so as to finish off this 
business to the satisfaction of everybody.” 

As your worship will have it so, senor,” said Sancho, so 
be it ; but throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I ’m sweat- 
ifig and I don’t want to take cold ; it ’s a risk that novice dis- 
ciplinants run.” 

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, 
who slept until the sun woke him ; they then resumed their 
journey, which for the time being they brought to an end at a 
village that lay three leagues farther on. They dismounted 
at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognized as such and did 
not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, and draw- 
bridge ; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more 
rationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They 
quartered him in a room on the ground floor, where in place of 
* Prov. 251. * Prov. 19. » 73 . 


CHAPTER LXXL 


487 


leather hangings there were pieces of painted serge such as they 
commonly use in villages. On one of them was painted by some 
very poor hand the Rape of Helen, when the bold guest carried 
her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the story of Dido 
and ^^Ineas, she on a high tower, as though she were making 
signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at 
sea flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two 
stories that Helen did not go very reluctantly, for she was 
laughing slyly and roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown 
dropping tears the size of walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote 
as he looked at them observed, Those two ladies were very 
unfortunate not to have been born in this age, and I unfortu- 
nate above all men not to have been born in theirs. Had I 
fallen' in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been 
burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for 
me to slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been 
avoided.” 

I T1 lay a bet,” said Sancho, that before long there won’t 
be a tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber’s shop where the 
story of our doings won’t be painted up ; but I ’d like it painted 
by the hand of a better painter than painted these.” 

Thou art right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, for this painter 
is like Orbaneja, a painter there was at XJbeda, who when they 
asked him what he was painting, used to say, ‘ Whatever it may 
turn out ; ’ and if he chanced to paint a cock he would write 
under it, ‘ This is a cock,’ for fear they might think it was a 
fox. The painter or writer, for it ’s all the same, who published 
the history of this new Don Quixote that has come out, must 
have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or 
wrote ^ whatever it might turn out ; ’ or perhaps he is like a 
poet called Mauleon that was about the Court some years ago, 
who used to answer at haphazard whatever he was asked, and 
on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he replied De 
donde diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou 
a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst 
thou rather have it indoors or in the open air ? ” 

Egad, senor,” said Sancho, for what I ’m going to give my- 
self, it comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in 
the fields ; still I ’d like it to be among trees ; for I think they 
are company for me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully.” 

And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend,” said Don Qui- 
xote ; but, to enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it 


488 


DON QUIXOTE. 


for our own village ; for at the latest we shall get there the day 
after to-morrow.’^ 

Sancho said he might do as he pleased ; but that for his own 
part he would like to finish off the business quickly before his 
blood cooled and while he had an appetite, because in delay 
there is apt to be danger ’’ very often, and praying to God and 
plying the hammer,’’ and one take was better than two I ’ll 
give thee’s,” and a sparrow in the hand than a vulture on the 
, wing.” ^ 

For God’s sake, Sancho, no more proverbs ! ” exclaimed 
Don Quixote ; “ it seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat 
again ; speak in a plain, simple, straightforward way, as I have 
often told thee, and thou wilt find the good of it.” ^ 

I don’t know what bad luck it is of mine,” said Sancho, 
but I can’t utter a word without a proverb, or a proverb that 
is not as good as an argument to my mind ; however, I mean 
to mend if I can j ” and so for the present the conversation 
ended. 


CHAPTEK LXXII. 

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR 
VILLAGE. 

All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the 
village and inn waiting for night, the one to finish off his task 
of scourging in the open country, the other to see it accom- 
plished, for therein lay the accomplishment of his wishes. 
Meanwhile there arrived at the hostelry a traveller on horse- 
back with three or four servants, one of whom said to him 
who appeared to be the master, Here, Senor Don A!lvaro 
Tarfe, your worship may take your siesta to-day ; the quarters 
seem clean and cool.” 

When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, Look 
here, Sancho ; on turning over the leaves of that book of the 
Second Part of my history I think I came casually upon this 
name of Don i!!lvaro Tarfe.” 

^Wery likely,” said Sancho; ‘^we had better let him d.is- 
mount, and by-and-by we can ask about it.” 

' Provs. 222, 85, 227, and 167. 

* See Note 2, page 243, chapter xzziy. 


CHAPTER LX XI I. 


489 


The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a 
room on the ground floor opposite Don Quixote’s and adorned 
with painted serge hangings of the same sort. The newly 
arrived gentleman put on a summer coat, and coming out to 
the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide and cool, address- 
ing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he asked, 
In what direction is your worship bound, gentle sir ? ” 

To a village near this which is my own village,” replied 
Don Quixote ; and your worship, where are you bound 
for ? ” 

“ I am going to Granada, senor,” said the gentleman, ‘‘ to my 
own country.” 

And a goodly country,” said Don Quixote ; but will your 
worship do me the favor of telling me your name, for it strikes 
me it is of more importance to me to know it than I can well 
tell you.” 

My name is Don Xlvaro Tarfe,” replied the traveller. 

To which Don Quixote returned, I have no doubt whatever 
thaib your worship is that Don .Alvaro Tarfe who appears in 
print in the Second Part of the history of Don Quixote of La 
Mancha, lately printed and published by a new author.” 

I am the same,” replied the gentleman ; and that said 
Don Quixote, the principal personage in the said history, was 
a very great friend of mine, and it was I who took him away 
from home, or at least induced him to come to some jousts that 
were to be held at Saragossa, whither I was going myself ; 
indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved him from 
having his shoulders touched up by the executioner because of 
his extreme rashness.” ^ 

Tell me, Senor Don J’Llvaro,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ am i at 
all like that Don Quixote you talk of ? ” 

No indeed,” replied the traveller, not a bit.” 

And that Don Quixote ” — said our one, had he with him 
a squire called Sancho Panza ? ” 

“ He had,” said Don Xlvaro ; “ but though he had the name 
of being very droll, I never heard him say anything that had 
any drollery in it.” 

That I can well believe,” said Sancho at this, for to come 
out with drolleries is not in everybody’s line ; and that Sancho 
your worship speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoun* 
drel, dunderhead, and thief, all in one; for I am the real 
* Avellaneda, chapter ix. 


490 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Sancho Panza, and I have more drolleries than if it rained 
them ; let your worship only try ; come along with me for a 
year or so, and you will find they fall from me at every turn, 
and 60 rich and so plentiful that though mostly I don’t know 
what I am saying I make everybody that hears me laugh. 
And the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the famous, the 
valiant, the wise, the lover, the righter of wrongs, the guardian 
of minors and orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of 
damsels, he who has for his sole mistress the peerless Dulcinea 
del Toboso, is this gentleman before you, my master ; all other 
Don Quixotes and all other Sancho Panzas are dreams and 
mockeries.” 

“ By God 1 believe it,” said Don Xlvaro ; for you have 
uttered more drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have 
spoken than the other Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from 
him, and they were not a few. He was more greedy than 
well-spoken, and more dull than droll ; and I am convinced 
that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good have 
been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But 
I don’t know what to say, for I am ready to swear I left 
him shut up in the Casa del Nuncio at Toledo,^ and here 
another Don Quixote turns up, though a very different one 
from mine.” 

I don’t know whether I am good,” said Don Quixote, but 
I can safely say I am not ^ the Bad ; ’ and to prove it, let me 
tell you, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I have never in my life been 
in Saragossa ; so far from that, when it was told me that this 
imaginary Don Quixote had been present at the jousts in that 
city, I declined to enter it, in order to drag his falsehood 
before the face of the world; and so I went on straight to 
Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of strangers, 
asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the 
wronged, pleasant exchange of firm friendships, and city un- 
rivalled in site and beauty. And though the adventures that 
befell me there are not by any means matters of enjoyment, 
but rather of regret, I do not regret them, simply because I 
have seen it. In a word, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, the one that fame speaks of, and not 
the unlucky one that has attempted to usurp my name and 

*A madhouse founded in 1483 by Francisco Ortiz, Canon of Toledo, 
and apostolic nuncio. Avellaneda concludes by depositing Don Quixote 
in it. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 


491 


deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat your worship by youi 
devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a declaration 
before the alcalde of this village that you never in all your 
life saw me until now, and that neither am 1 the Don Quixote 
in print in the Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, 
the one your worship knew.” 

That I will do most willingly,” replied Don Alvaro ; 
though it amazes me to find two Don Quixotes and two 
Sancho Panzas at once, as much alike in name as they differ 
in demeanor ; and again I say and declare that what I saw I 
cannot have seen, and that what happened to me cannot have 
happened.” 

No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulci- 
nea del Toboso,” said Sancho ; and would to Heaven your 
disenchantment rested on mj" giving myself another three 
thousand and odd lashes like what I ’m giving myself for her, 
for I ’d lay them on without looking for anything.” 

“ I don’t understand that about the lashes,” said Don Alvaro. 

Sancho replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would 
tell him if they happened to be going the same road. 

By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don 
Alvaro dined together. The alcalde of the village came by 
chance into the inn together with a notary, and Don Quixote 
laid a petition before him, showing that it was requisite for 
his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there present, 
should make a declaration before him that he did not know 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he 
was not the one that was in print in a history entitled “ Sec- 
ond Part of Don Quixote of La Mancha, by one Avellaneda of 
Tordesillas.” The alcalde finally put it in legal form, and 
the declaration was made with all the formalities required in 
such cases, at which Don Quixote and Sancho were in high de- 
light, as if a declaration of the sort was of any great impor- 
tance to them, and as if their words and deeds did not plainly 
show the difference between the two Don Quixotes and the 
two Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service were ex- 
changed by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in the course of 
which the great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he 
disabused Don Alvaro of the error he was under ; and he, on 
his part, felt convinced he must have been enchanted, now 
that he had been brought in contact with two such opposite 
Don Quixotes. 


492 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Evening came, they set out for the village, and after about 
half a league two roads branched off, one leading to Don 
Quixote’s village, the other the road Don Alvaro was to follow. 
In this short interval Don Quixote told him of his unfortunate 
defeat, and of Dulcinea’s enchantment and the remedy, all 
which threw Don .Alvaro into fresh amazement, and embracing 
Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and Don Quixote 
went his. That night he passed among trees again in order to 
give Sancho an opportunity of working out his penance, which 
he did in. the same fashion as the night before, at the expense 
of the bark of the beech trees much more than of his back, of 
which he took such good care that the lashes would not have 
knocked off a fly had there been one there. The duped Don 
Quixote did not miss a single stroke of the count, and he found 
that together with those of the night before they made up 
three thousand and twenty-nine. The sun apparently had got 
up early to witness the sacrifice, and with his light they re- 
sumed their journey, discussing the deception practised on 
Don J^lvaro, and saying how well done it was to have taken 
his declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable 
form. That day and night they travelled on, nor did any- 
thing worth mention happen to them, unless it was that in the 
course of the night Sancho finished off his task, whereat Don 
Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He watched for day- 
light, to see if along the road he should fall in with his already 
disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his journey 
there was no woman he met that he did not go up to, to see if 
she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain 
that Merlin’s promises could not lie. Full of these thoughts 
and anxieties, they ascended a rising ground wherefrom they 
descried their own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on 
his knees exclaiming, Open thine eyes, longed-for home, and 
see how thy son Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very 
rich, very well whipped ! Open thine arms and receive, too, 
thy son Don Quixote, who, if he comes vanquished by the arm 
of another, comes victor over himself, which, as he himself has 
told me, is the greatest victory any one can desire. I ’m bring- 
ing back money, for if I was well whipped, I went mounted 
like a gentleman.” ‘ 

Have done with these fooleries,” said Don Quixote ; let 
us push on straight and get to our own place, where we will 
> Prov. 29. 


CHAPTER LX XI 11. 


493 


give free range to our fancies, and settle our plans for our 
future pastoral life.’’ 

With this they descended the slope and directed their steps 
to their village. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN 

VILLAGE, AND OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND 

GIVE A COLOR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY. 

At the entrance of the village, so says Cid Hamet, Don Qui- 
xote saw two boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor, 
one of whom said to the other, Take it easy, Periquillo ; thou 
shalt never see it again as long as thou livest.” 

Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, Dost thou 
not mark, friend, what that boy said, ‘ Thou shalt never see it 
again as long as thou livest ’ ? ” 

Well,” said Sancho, what does it matter if the boy said 
so?” 

^^What!” said Don Quixote, dost thou not see that, 
applied to the object of my desires, the words mean that I am 
never to see Dulcinea more ? ” 

Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted 
by seeing a hare come flying across the plain pursued by several 
greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter 
and hide itself under Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and pre- 
sented it to Don Quixote, who was saying, Malum signum^ 
malum signum! a hare &es, greyhounds chase it, 'Dulcinea 
appears not.” 

Your worship ’s a strange man,” said Sancho ; let ’s take 
it for granted that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds 
chasing it the malignant enchanters who turned her into a 
country wench ; she flies, and I catch her and put her into 
your worship’s hands, and you hold her in your arms and 
cherish her ; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen is there 
to be found here ? ” 

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look 
at the hare, and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel 
was about. He was answered by the one who had said, Thou 
shalt never see it again as long as thou livest,” that he had 
taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy, and did not 


494 


DON QUIXOTE. 


mean to give it back to him as long as he lived. Sancho took 
out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the boy for 
the cage, which he placed in Don Quixote’s hands, saying. 

There, sehor ! there are the omens broken and destroyed, 
and they have no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, 
fool as I am, than with last year’s clouds ; and if I remember 
rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that it does 
not become Christians or sensible people to give any heed to 
these silly things ; and even you yourself said the same to me 
some time ago, telling me that all Christians who minded 
omens were fools ; but there ’s no need of making words about 
it ; let us push on and go into our village.” 

The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which 
Don Quixote gave them. They then went on, and upon the 
green at the entrance of the town they came upon the curate 
and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy with their breviaries. 
It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way of 
a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armor, 
■^he buckram robe painted with flames which they had put 
upon him at the duke’s castle the night Altisidora came back 
to life. He had also fixed the mitre on Dapple’s head, 
the oddest transformation and decoration that ever ass in the 
world underwent. They were at once recognized by both the 
curate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open 
arms. Don Quixote dismounted and received them with a 
close embrace ; and the boys, who are lynxes that nothing 
escapes, spied out the ass’s mitre and came running to see it, 
calling out to one another, Come here, boys, and see Sancho 
Panza’s ass rigged out finer than Mingo,^ and Don Quixote’s 
beast leaner than ever.” 

So at length, with the boys capering round them, and 
accompanied by the curate and the bachelor, they made their 
entrance into the town, and proceeded to Don Quixote’s house, 
at the door of which they found his housekeeper and niece, 
whom the news of his arrival had already reached. It had 
been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho’s wife, as well, and she 

* Alluding to the opening lines of the old fifteenth-century satire of 
Mingo Revulgo. 

Mingo Revulgo ! What ! It ’s you I 
What have you done with your doublet blue? 

Your Sunday suit? Is this the way 
You walk abroad on the holy day? 


F. Note 1, p. viii. 


CHAPTER LXXIIL 


495 


with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her 
daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband ; but seeing 
him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a 
governor ought to be, she said to him, How is it you come 
this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping and 
footsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a 
governor/^ 

“Hold your tongue, Teresa,’^ said Sancho; “often where 
there are pegs there are no flitches ; ^ let ’s go into the house 
and there you ’ll hear strange things. I bring money, and 
that ’s the main thing, got by my own industry without 
wronging anybody.” 

“ You bring the money, my good husband,” said Teresa, 
“ and no matter whether it was got this way or that ; for, 
however you may have got it, you ’ll not have brought any new 
practice into the world.” 

Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought 
her anything, for she had been looking out for him as for the 
showers of May ; and she taking hold of him by the girdle on 
one side, and his wife by the hand, while the daughter led 
Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don Quixote in his, 
in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in the company 
of the curate and the bachelor. 

Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, > 
withdrew in private with the bachelor and the curate, and in 
a few words told them of his defeat, and of the engagement 
he was under not to quit his village for a year, which he meant 
to keep to the letter without departing a hair’s breadth from it, 
as became a knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith and 
the laws of knight-errantry ; and of how he thought of turning 
shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitude 
of the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give range 
to his thoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral 
calling ; and he besought them, if they had not a great deal to 
do and were not prevented by more important business, to con- 
sent to be his companions, for he would buy sheep enough to 
qualify them for shepherds ; and the most important point of 
the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had 
given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked 
what they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to 
be called the shepherd Quixotiz, and the bachelor the shepherd 

» Prov. 226 . 


496 


DON QUIXOTE, 


Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curiambro, and Sancho 
Panza the shepherd Pancino. 

Both were astounded at Don Quixote’s new craze ; however, 
lest he should once more make off out of the village from them 
in pursuit of chivalry, they, trusting that in the course of the 
year he might be cured, fell in with his new project, applauded 
his crazy idea as a bright one, and offered to share the life with 
him. And what ’s more,” said Samson Carrasco, I am, as 
all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I ’ll be always 
making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into my 
head, to j)ass away our time in those secluded regions where we 
shall be roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each 
of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to 
glorify in his verses, and that we should not leave a tree, be it 
ever so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, 
as is the habit and custom of love-smitten shepherds.” 

That ’s the very thing,” said Don Quixote ; though I am 
relieved from looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, 
for there ’s the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these 
brook-sides, the ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of 
beauty, the cream of all the graces, and, in a word, the being to 
whom all praise is appropriate, be it ever so hyperbolical.” 

' « Very true,” said the curate ; but we the others must look 
about for accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our 
purpose one way or another.” 

And,” added Samson Carrasco, if they fail us, we can call 
them by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled 
with, Pilidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Pleridas, Galateas, Belisar- 
das ; for as they sell them in the market-places we may fairly 
buy them and make them our own. If my lady, or I should 
say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, I ’ll sing her 
praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I ’ll call 
her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the 
same thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may 
glorify his wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina.” 

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the 
curate bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honorable 
resolution he had made, and again offered to bear him company 
all that he could spare from his imperative duties. And so 
they took their leave of him, recommending and beseeching him 
to take care of his health and treat himself to a generous diet. 

•^It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


497 


all the three of them said ; and as soon as they were gone they 
both of them came in to Don Quixote, and said the niece, 
“ What’s this, uncle ? Now that we were thinking you had 
come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectable life 
there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements, and turn 
‘ young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going 
there’ ? ^ Nay ! indeed ^the straw is too hard now to make 
pipes of.’ ” * 

And,” added the housekeeper, will your worship be able 
to bear, out in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of 
winter, and the howling of the wolves ? Not you ; for that ’s a 
life and a business for hardy men, bred and seasoned to such 
work almost from the time they were in swaddling-clothes. 
Why, to make choice of evils, it ’s better to be a knight-errant 
than a shepherd ! Look here, senor ; take my advice — and 
I ’m not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, 
and with fifty years upon my head — stay at home, look after 
your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and 
upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you.” 

Hold your peace, my daughters,” said Don Quixote ; I 
know very well what my duty is ; help me to bed, for I don’t 
feel very well ; and rest assured that, knight-errant now or 
wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail to have a care for 
your interests, as you will see in the end.” And the good 
wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and 
niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him something to 
eat and made him as comfortable as possible. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

OP HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE 
MADE, AND HOW HE DIED. 

As nothing that is man’s can last forever, but all tends ever 
downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all man’s 
life, and as Don Quixote’s enjoyed no special dispensation 
from Heaven to stay its course, its end and close came when he 
least looked for it. For — whether it was of the dejection the 

’ The beginning of a ballad in the cancionero of Francisco de Ocana. 

* Prov. 7. 

VoL. H. — 32 


498 


DON QUIXOTE. 


th-ought of Ms defeat produced, or of Heaven’s will that so 
ordered it — a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed 
for six days, during which he was often visited by his friends 
the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire 
Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded 
that it was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the object 
of his heart, the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea, 
unattained, that kept him in this state, strove by all the 
means in their power to cheer him up ; the bachelor bidding 
him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for which 
he himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that 
would take the shine out of all Sannazaro ^ had ever written, 
and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to 
guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, 
which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him. 

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake oft’ his sadness. 
His friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was 
not very well satisfied with it, and said that in any case it 
would be well for him to attend to the health of his soul, as 
that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixote heard this 
calmly ; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, 
who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before 
them. The doctor’s opinion was that melancholy and depres- 
sion were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote begged them 
to leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. 
They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the saying is, 
more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought 
he was going to sleep forever. But at the end of that time he 
woke up, and in a loud voice exclaimed, Blessed be Almighty 
God, who has shown me such goodness. In truth his mercies 
are boundless, and the sins of men can neither limit them nor 
keep them back ! ” 

The niece listened with attention to her uncle’s words, and 
they struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from 
him, at least during his illness, so she asked, What are you 
saying, senor ? Has anything strange occurred ? What mercies 
or what sins of men are you talking of ? ” 

The mercies, niece,” said Don Quixote, are those that 
God has this moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my 
sins are no impediment to them. My reason is now free and 

‘Jacopo Sannazaro, the Neapolitan poet (1458-1530), author of the 
Arcadia. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


499 


clear, rid of the dark shadows of ignorance that my unhappy 
constant study of those detestable books of chivalry cast over 
it. Now I see through their absurdities and deceptions, and 
it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusions has 
come so late that it leaves me no time to make some amends 
by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. 
Niece, I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain 
meet it in such a way as to show that my life has not been so 
ill that I should leave behind me the name of a madman ; for 
though I have been one, I would not that the fact should be 
made plainer at my death. Call in to me, my dear, my good 
friends the Curate, the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master 
Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will.’’ 
But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the 
three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, 
“ Good news for you, good sirs,^ that I am no longer Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano,^ whose way of 
life won for him the name of Good. Now am I the enemy of 
Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of his 
descendants ; odious to me now are all the profane stories of 
knight-errantry ; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into 
which reading them brought me ; now, by God’s mercy 
schooled into my Aght senses, I loathe them.” 

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no 
doubt whatever that some new craze had taken possession of 
him ; and said Samson, What ? Senor Don Quixote ! Now 
that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea being disen- 
chanted, are you taking this line ; now, just as we are on the 
point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like 
princes, are you thinking of turning hermit ? Hush for 
Heaven’s sake, be rational, and let’s have no more non- 
sense.” 

All that nonsense,” said Don Quixote, “ that until now has 
been a reality to my hurt, my death will, with Heaven’s help, 
turn to my good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near 
death ; a truce to jesting ; let me have a confessor to confess 
me, and a notary to make my will ; for in extremities like this, 
man must not trifle with his soul ; and while the curate is con- 
fessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary.” 

* Dadme alhricias huenos senor es, Alhricias^ from the Arabic al bash* 
ara, the reward claimed by one who brings good news. 

2 In the first chapter of the First Part, the reader may remember, the 
name is given as Quixana. 


500 


DON QUIXOTE. 


They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote’s 
words ; but, though uncertain, they were inclined to believe 
him, and one of the signs by which they came to the con- 
clusion he was dying was this so sudden and complete return 
to his senses after having been mad ; for to the words already 
quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and 
so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he 
was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left 
alone with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the 
notary and returned shortly afterwards with him and with 
Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor the 
condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and 
niece weeping, began to blubber ^ and shed tears. 

The confession over, the curate came out saying, Alonso 
Quixano the Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right 
mind ; we may now go in to him while he makes his will.’’ 

This news gave a tremendous impluse to the brimming eyes 
of the housekeeper, the niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, 
making the tears burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from 
their hearts ; for of a truth, as has been said more than once, 
whether as plain Alonso Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote 
of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a gentle disposition 
and kindly in all his ways, and hence he w^s beloved, not only 
by those of his own house, but by all who knew him. 

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the pre- 
amble of the will had been set out and Don Quixote had com- 
mended his soul to God with all the devout formalities that are 
usual, coming to the bequests, he said, Item, it is my will that, 
touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho Panza (whom 
in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him 
and me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, 
no claim be made against him, nor any account demanded of him 
in respect of them ; but that if anything remain over and above, 
after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance, which 
will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him ; 
and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the gov- 
ernment of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could 
give him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity 
of his character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it.” 
And then, turning to Sancho, he said, “ Forgive me, my friend, 

' Hacer pucheros refers rather to the working of the face that pre* 
'«des a fit of weeping. 


chapter lxxiv. 


601 


that I led thee to seem as mad as myself, making thee fall into 
the same error I myself fell into, that there were and still are 
knight s-er rant in the world.” 

Ah ! ” said Sancho weeping, don’t die, master, but take my 
advice and live many years ; for the foolishest thing a man can 
do in this life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, 
without anybody killing him, or any hands but melancholy’s 
making an end of him. Come, don’t be lazy, but get up from 
your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd’s trim as we 
agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dul- 
cinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are 
dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on 
me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed Roci* 
nante badly ; besides you must have seen in your books of chiv- 
alry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another, 
and for him who is 6onquered to-day to be conqueror to-mor- 
row.” 

Very true,” said Samson, ^^and good Sancho Panza’s view 
of these cases is quite right.” 

Sirs, not so fast,” said Don Quixote, ^ in last year’s nests 
there are no birds this year.’ ^ I was mad, now I am in my 
senses ; I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I 
said, Alonso Quixano the Good ; and may my repentance and 
sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me ; 
and now let Master Notary proceed. 

Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia 
Quixana my niece, here present, after all has been deducted 
from the most available portion of it that may be required to 
satisfy the bequests I have made. And the first disbursement 
I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe for the 
time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over 
and above for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson 
Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors. 

<< Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, 
desires to marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be 
first of all ascertained by information taken that he does not 
know what books of chivalry are ; and if it should be proved 
that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece insists upon 
marrying him, and does marry him, then that she shall forfeit 
the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shall 
devote to works of charity as they please. 

* Prov. 154. 


502 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that 
if any happy chance should lead them to discover the author 
who is said to have written a history now going about under 
the title of ^ Second Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote 
of La Mancha,’ they beg of him on my behalf as earnestly as 
they can to forgive me for having been, without intending it, 
the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absurdi- 
ties as he has written in it ; for I am leaving the world with a 
feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write 
them.” 

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over 
him he stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All 
were in a flutter and made haste to relieve him, and during 
the three days he lived after that on which he made his will 
he fainted away very often. The house was all in confusion ; 
but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank and Sancho 
Panza enjoyed himself ; for inheriting property wipes out or 
softens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man 
might be expected to leave behind him.^ 

At last Don Quixote’s end came, after he had received all 
the sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed 
his detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at 
the time, and he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever 
read of any knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so 
like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears and 
lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say 
died. On perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear 
witness that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don 
Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this present 
life, and died naturally ; and said he desired this testimony in 
order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cid 
Hamet Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and mak- 
ing interminable stories out of his achievements. 

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La 
Mancha, whose village Cid Hamet would not indicate pre- 

* This piece of commonplace cynicism, so uncalled for and so incon- 
sistent with what has gone before, is, I imagine, regretted by most of 
Cervantes’ readers. The conclusion of Don Quixote, it must be confessed, 
is not worthy of the book or of its author. After the quiet pathos and dig- 
nity of Don Quixote’s death, the shrill note of the scolding once more 
administered to the wretched Avellaneda falls like a discord on the read- 
er’s ear, and Samson Carrasco’s doggerel does not tend to allay the 
irritation. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


508 


cisely, in order to leave all the towns and villages of La 
Mancha to contend among themselves for the right to adopt 
him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece con- 
tended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece 
and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs 
upon his tomb ; Samson Carrasco, however, put the following ; 

A doughty gentleman lies here ; 

A stranger all his life to fear; 

Nor in his death could Death prevail, 

In that lost hour, to make him quail. 

He for the world but little cared ; 

And at his feats the world was scared ; 

A crazy man his life he passed. 

But in his senses died at last.* 

And said most sage Cid Hamet to his pen, Best here, hung 
up by this brass wire, upon this shelf, 0 my pen, whether of 
skilful make or clumsy cut I know not ; here shalt thou remain 
long ages hence, unless presumptuous or malignant story-tellers 
take thee down to profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn 
them, and, as best thou canst, say to them : 

Hold off ! ye weaklings ; hold your hands ! 

Adventure it let none. 

For this emprise, my lord the king. 

Was meant for me alone. 

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him ; it was his 
to act, mine to write ; we two together make but one, notwith- 
standing and in spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer 
who has ventured or would venture with his great, coarse, ill- 
trimmed ostrich quill to write the achievements of my valiant 
knight ; — no burden for his shoulders, nor subject for his 
frozen wit : whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to know 
him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary 

* Clemencin objects to these verses that if they are meant seriously 
they are poor, and if intended as a joke they are stupid. Cervantes no 
doubt meant them as an imitation of the ordinary epitaph style of the 
village poet, but even so they could have been very well spared. 

* The two last lines occur in one of the ballads on the death of Alonso 
de Aguilar tn the Guerras Civiles de Granada^ Pt. I. chap. xvii. 


504 


DON QUIXOTE, 


mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry 
him off, in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old 
Castile,^ making him rise from the grave where in reality and 
truth he lies stretched at full length, powerless to make any 
third expedition or new sally ; for the two that he has already 
made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to 
whom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign 
countries, are quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into 
ridicule the whole of those made by the whole set of the 
knights-errant ; and so doing shalt thou discharge thy Chris- 
tian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears ill-will to 
thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been 
the first who has ever enjoined the fruit of his writings as 
fully as he could desire ; for my desire has been no other than 
to deliver over to the detestation of mankind the false and 
foolish tales of the books of chivalry, which, thanks to that 
of my true Don Quixote, are even now tottering, and doubtless 
doomed to fall forever.^ Darewell,^^ 

* At the end of his last chapter Avellaneda speaks of a tradition in La 
Mancha that Don Quixote recovered his senses and made a journey 
through Old Castile hy Salamanca, Avila, and Valladolid. 

* The bibliography of chivalry romance shows that this was no vain- 
glorious boast on the part of Cervantes. All through the sixteenth 
century romances of chivalry, new or reprints, continued to pour from 
the press in a steady stream, but no new romance was produced after the 
appearance of Don Quixote, and only one or two of the swarm of old 
ones reprinted. V. Appendix — Spanish Ramances of Chivalry, 


APPENDICES 


I. 


THE PROVERBS OF DON QUIXOTE. 

The proverbs in this list, it will be seen, are arranged by essential 
words ; not according to their beginnings, which are very often arbitrary. 
Some have been included which apparently have no right to a place in it • 
" To ask pears of the elm-tree,” for instance, is not strictly a proverb as 
it stands ; but as applied to illustrate some absurdity or unreasonable ex- 
pectation, it has a proverbial character that entitles it to admission. 
Some, also, there are which do not appear in proverbial form in " Don 
Quixote,” being merely alluded to in the text; and, if conjectural addi- 
tions were allowable, a few more might perhaps have been added, as for 
example, Vaca y carnero olla de ca^allero — "beef and mutton, an olla 
fit for a gentleman” — which very possibly Cervantes may have had in 
his mind when he described Don Quixote’s olla as of " rather more beef 
than mutton.” I have not invariably given the proverbs as they stand 
in the text, for the version of Cervantes is sometimes incorrect, or at any 
rate inferior to that of the older or contemporary proverb collectors. 
There is no lack of early authorities ; there is the collection made by the 
illustrious Marquis of Santillana in the middle of the fifteenth century, 
the famous one of the great Greek scholar, Hernan Nunez de Guzman, 
and those of Pedro Valles, Palmireno, and Juan de Mai Lara in the 
next, and Caesar Gudin’s in 1608 ; but the one I have most frequently 
referred to, as it shows the application of the proverbs, is the curious 
collection of Blasco de Garay, in the form of three letters entirely com- 
posed of proverbs, which was printed as early as 1545. Nothing contrib- 
utes more to the national character of Don Quixote than its wealth in this 
department of popular lore, for in no country is the jilosofia vulgar — as 
Mai Lara aptly called it — which finds expression in the proverb, so dis- 
tinctly a national characteristic in Spain, where one of Sancho’s aphor- 
isms is still as valid an argument as it was in his day. The Quixote 
proverbs form a small collection compared with others in the language, 
but the collection is a representative one. A proverb that is quoted in 
" Don Quixote ” is doubly a popular proverb, and any sayings that took 
the fancy of Cervantes we may safely accept as specimens of wj^at Allan 
Ramsay calls " the guid auld Laws that shine wi’ wail’d sense, and will 
as lang as the world wags.” 


505 


DON QUIXOTE. 


506 


1 . 


2 . 


3. 


4. 


5 . 


6 . 

7. 


8 . 


9. 


10 . 


11 . 


12 . 


13 . 


Si bien canta el Abad, no le va en zaga el inonacillo. 

IJ the abbot sings well, the acolyte is not much behind him. 

Part ii. Chap. 25. 

El Abad de lo que canta yanta. 

It "‘s by his singing the abbot gets his dinner. ii. 60, 71. 

Nunez : clende yanta. 

Portuguese: Abbade donde canta, dahijanta. 

Toda Afectacion es mala. ii. 26, 43. 

All affectation is bad. 

Ahora lo veredes dijo Agrajes. 

“ You will see presently said Agrajes. i. 8. 

A phrase from “ Amadis of Gaul.” Agrajes was Araadis’s cousin and 
comrade. 

Nadie diga, desta Agua yo no bebere. 

Let no one say, I will not drink of this water. ii. 55. 

The Portuguese add: “Nem deste pao comei’ei. ” Garay. Carta i. 

La Alabanza propia envilece. 

Self-praise debaseth. i. 16; ii. 16. 

Ya estd dui’o el Alcacer para zampoiias. 

The straw is too hard now to make pipes of. n. 73. 

Quien padre tiene Alcalde, seguro va d juicio. 

He who has the alcalde for his father, goes into court with an 
easy mind. ii. 43. 

Mas raal hay en el Aldeguela del que se suena. 

There's more mischief in the village than comes to one's ears. 

I. 46. 

Generally mistranslated “ than one dreams of,” as if it were suena. 
Garay. Cai-ta 1. 

Portuguese : Na aldea, que nao he boa, 

Mais mai ha, que soa. 

Mas vale Algo que nada. 

Something is better than nothing. l. 21. 

Mientras se gana Algo, no se pierde nada. 

So long as one gets something, there is nothing lost. ii. 7 

Haz lo que tu Amo te manda, y sientate con el d la mesa. 

Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with him. 

II. 29. 

Dime con quien Andas, decirte he quien eres. 

'fell me what company thou keepest, and I'll tell thee what 
thou art. ii. 10, 23 

Garay. Carta 4. Portuguese : Dirte he que manhas has. 


APPENDIX /. 


,607 


14 . Hombre Apercibido 
Medio combatido. 

The man who is prepared has his battle half fought, ll. 17. 

Italian: Chi e avvisato 6 armato. 

15. Quien a buen Arbol se arrima, 

Buena sombra le cobija. 

Who leans against a good tree, a good shade covers him. 

I., Verses of Urganda; ii. 32 
Garay. Carta i. Ruin arbol — ruin sombra. 

16. Del hombre Arraigado 
No te veras vengado. 

Thou canst have no revenge of a man of substance. ii. 43. 

17. Un Asno cargado de oro sube ligero por una montana. 

An ass loaded with gold goes lightly up a mountain. ii. 35. 

18. La culpa del Asno no se ha de echar k la albarda. 

The fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack saddle, ii. 66. 
Garay. Carta i. Portuguese : Com raiva do asno tornase d albarda. 

19. El Asno sufre'la carga, mas no la sobrecarga. 

The ass bears the load, but not the overload. n. 71. 

20. Las Avecitas del campo teinen k Dios por su proveedor y 

despensero. 

The little birds of the field have Ood for their purveyor and 


caterer. n. 33. 

21. Quien Bien tiene y mal escoge, 

Del Mal quo le viene no se enoje. 

Who has good and seeks out evil, let him not complain of the 
evil that comes to him. I. 31. 

Garay. Carla 4. 

22. Cuando viene el Bien, m6telo en tu casa. 

When good luck comes to thee take it in. II. 4. 

23. El Bien no es conocido 
Hasta que es perdido. 

Good fortune is not known until it is lost. ii. 54. 

24: Lo Bien ganado se pierde, y lo malo ello y su duefio. 

Well-gotten gain may be lost, but ill-gotten is lost, itself, and 
its owner likewise. ii. 54. 


25. Jiintate k los Buenos y seiAs uno dellos. 

Attach thyself to the good, and thou wilt become one of them. 

II. 32. 

Portuguese : Arrima-te aos bo ns, seras hum delles. 


608 

DON QUIXOTE, 



26. 

Nunca lo Bueno fue mucho. 

W'hat ’s good was never yet plentiful. 


I. 6. 

27. 

El Buey suelto bien se lame. 

The ox that ’s loose licks himself well. 


n. 22. 

28. 

Ne son Burlas las que duelen. 

Jests that give pain are no jests. 

“ No son buenas burlas las que salen k la cara.” 
P. 11. b. ii. c. 3. 

n. 62. 

Guzman de Alfarache, 

29. 

Si buenos azotes mo daban, bien Caballero 

me iba. 



If I was well whipped, I went mounted like a gentleman. 


II. .36, 72. 

Evidently the saying of some philosophical picaro who had been whipped 
through the streets, mounted on an ass in the usual way. 


30. 

El que hoy Cae puede levantarse manana. 

n. 65. 


He that falls to-day may get up to-morrow. 

31. 

Andeme yo Caliente, 

Y riase la gente. 



Let me go warm, and let the people laugh. 

n. 50. 

32. 

Quien Canta 

Sus males espanta. 



He who sings scares away his woes. 

I. 22. 

33. 

Cantarillo que muchas veces va d la fuente 



O deja el asa 6 la f rente. 

The pitcher that goes often to the well leaves behind either the 
handle or the spout, i. 30. 

Garay. Carta i. 

34. Si da el Cantaro en la piedra, 6 la piedra en el cautaro, mal 

para el cantaro. 

Whether the pitcher hits the stone, or the stone hits the pitcher, 
it 's a bad business for the pitcher, i. 20 ; ii. 43. 

35. El diablo estd en Cantillana. 

The devil is in Cantillana. ii. 49. 

Cantillana is a small town on the Guadalquivir, near Seville. The 
proverb is undoubtedly a historical one, but who the devil was is a 
disputed point. 

36. Debajo de mala Capa suele haber buen bebedor. 

Under a bad cloak there ’s often a good drinker. ii. 33. 
Guzman de Alfarache, I. ii. 7. Garay. Carta i. In Guzman it is 
“ vividor.” The commonplace explanation is that we should not 
trust to appearances. 

The Portuguese have the proverb ; and also the converse : Debaixo de 
bom saio esU o homem m^o. 


APPENDIX I, 


509 


87. Sobre mi la Capa cuando llueve. 

Over me be the cloak when it rains. ii. 66. 

38. No quiero, no quiero ; mas echadmelo en la Capilla. 

I won't have I won't have it ; but throw it into my hood. 

II. 42. 

A joke against the friars, who would not for the world beg. 

39. Tanto se pierde por Carta de mas como por carta de menos. 

As much is lost by a card too many as by a card too few. 

II. 17, 33, 37. 

40. Hablen Cartas y callen barbas 

Let papers speak and beards be still. ii. 7. 

When there is documentary evidence thei-e is no need of any other. 

41. En Casa llena 

Presto se guisa la cena. 

In a house where there "'s plenty supper is soon cooked, ii. 30, 43. 
Portuguese : Na casa cheia, asinha se faz a cea. 

42. A “ idos de mi Casa,” y “ que quereis con mi mujer ? ” no hay 

que responder. 

To get out of my house," and **what do you want with my 
wife‘s ” there 's no answer. ii. 43. 

,43 Mas sabe el necio en su Casa que el cuerdo eii la ajena. 

The fool knows more in his own house than the wise man in 
(mother's. ^ li. 43. 

Garay. Carta 3. 

44. En otras Casas cuecen habas, 

Y en la mia d calderadas. 

In other houses they cook beans, but in mine, iV s by the potful. 

II. 13. 

I get more than my share. A better form is : “ En cada casa cuecen — ” 

45. Castigame me mi madre, y yo trdmpogelas. 

My mother beaXs me, and I go on with my tricks. ii. 43, 67. 
Garay. Carta I. 

46. Quitada la Causa, se quita el pecado. 

. Do away with the cause, you do away with the sin. n. 67. 

47. Andar de Ceca en Meca, y de zoca en colodra. 

To wander from Zeca to Mecca, and from pail to bucket, i. 18. 
The Zeca was the holy place in the Mosque at Cordova, and, with the 
western Moslems, ranked next to Mecca as a goal for pilgrims. “To 
go from post to pillar.” 


510 


DON QUIXOTE, 


48. De amigo k amigo la Chinche en el ojo . 

Betiueen friends the bug in the eye. n. 12. 

“Tener chinche — or sanore — en el ojo” means to keep a sharp look- 
out. The proverb means that even between friends this is advisable. 
The Comendador Nuhez gives it, Chispe en el ojo — a spark in the eye. 
Garay. Carta 1. 

49. Muy Ciego es el que no ve por tela de cedazo. 

He is very blind who cannot see through a sieve, n. 1. 

Garay. Carta 1. 4. 

60. Codicia rompe el saco. 

Covetousness bursts the bag. i. 20 ; ii. 13, 36. 

Guzman de Alfarache, I. iii. 5. Garay. Carta 4. 

51. Ni hagas Cohecho, 

Ni pierdas derecho. 

Take no bribe, surrender no right, ll. 32, 49. 

52. Falta la Cola por desollar. 

There 's the tail to be skinned yet, n. 2, 35. 

Don’t fancy you have done with it. 

63. Todo saldr4 en la Colada. 

All will come out in the scouring, l. 20. 

54. Come poco y cena mas poco. 

Dine sparingly and sup more sparing still. n. 43. 

Properly, “ Come poco y cena mas; Duerme en alto y vivirds,” Dine 
sparingly, sup mox-e freely, sleep at the top of the house, and thou 
wilt live. 

In Pahnireno, Valencia 1589, it is, “ Come poco, cena mas, y 
dormiris.” 

55. El que Compra y miente, 

En su bolsa lo siente. 

He who buys and lies feels it in his purse. i. 25. 

66. Toda Coraparacion es odiosa. 

All comparisons are odious. ii. 23. 

57. Pon tuyo en Concejo, y unos dir^n que es bianco y otros que 

es negro. 

Make thy affairs public (literally, bring them into council), 
and some will say they are white and others black. ii. 36. 

58. Buen Corazon quebranta mala ventura. 

A stout heart breaks bad luck. U. 10, 35. 

Portuguese : Bom cora9ao quebranta ma ventura. 


APPENDIX L 


511 


59. Tan presto va el Cordero 
Como el carnero. 

The lamb goes as soon as the sheep (i.e. to the butcher), ii. 7. 
Guzmaa de Alfarache, II. i. 7. 

60. Pedir Cotufas en el golfo. 

To go looking for dainties at the bottom of the sea. 

I. 30; Ti. 3, 20. 

It has been suggested that the correct form is “ pedir chufas,” a tuber 
used to flavor drinks, such as lemonade. 

61. Cristiano viejo soy, y para ser conde esto me basta. 

I am an old Christian, and to be count that ’s qualification 
enough for me. i. 21. 

An old Christian; one free from any taint of Moorish or Jewish blood. 

62. Quien te Cubre te discubre. 

Who covers thee, discovers thee. n. 5. 


63. Mas calientan cuatro varas de pano de Cuenca que otras cuatro 
de limiste de Segovia. 

Four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one warmer than four of 



Segovia broadcloth. 

II. 

64. 

Cuidados ajenos matan al asno. 



The cares of others kill the ass. 

II. 13. 

. 65. 

Esas burlas k un Cunado. 



Try those jokes on a brother-in-law. 

II. 69. 


Quaere peregrinum. 


66. 

Quien te Da un hueso no te quiere ver muerto. 



He who gives thee a bone, does not wish to see thee dead. 

II. 50. 

Garay. Carta 3. 

67. 

El que luego Da, da dos veces. 

I. 34. 


Who gives at once gives twice. 

Bis dat qui cito dat. 

68. 

Dadivas quebrantan penas. 

n. 35. 


Gifts break rocks. 

Garay. Carta 4. 

69. 

A mi no se ha de echar Dado falso. 



It won't do to throw false dice with me. 

I. 47. 

70. 

Donde las Dan las toman. 

II. 65 


Where they give they take. 


512 


DON QUIXOTE. 


71. El Dar y el tener. 

Seso ha menester. 

Giving and keeping require brains. ii. 43, 58. 

72. Asaz de Desdichada es la persona que a las dos de la tarde no 

se ha desayunado. 

A hard case enough his who has not broken his fast at two in 
the afternoon. ii. 33. 

73. Desnudo naci, desnudo me hallo, ni pierdo ni gano. 

Naked was I born, naked I am, I neither lose nor gain. 

1 . 26 ; II. 8, 53, 55, 57. 

74. Quien Destaja no baraja. 

He who binds (i e. stipulates) does not wrangle. n. 7, 43. 
Always incon’ectly translated, “ he who cuts does not shuffle.” “ Bara- 
jar ” means to shuffle cards, but in the proverb it is used in a sense 
now obsolete. 

75. Tras la cruz estd el Diablo. 

Behind the cross there 's the devil. i. 6 ; li. 33, 47. 

76. Del Dicho al hecho 
Hay gran trecho. 

It ’s a long step from saying to doing. n. 34, 64. 

77. La Diligencia es madre de la.buena ventura. 

Diligence is the mother of good fortune. i. 46 ; n. 43. 

78. A Dineros pagados, 

Brazos quebrados. 

The money paid, the arms broken. n. 71. 

No more work to be grot out of them. 

Portuguese : A ohra pagada, bra 90 s quebrados. 

Garay. Carta 4. 

79. Va el hombre como Dios es servido. 

Man goes as Ood pleases. i. 22. 

80. Cada uno es como Dios le hizo, y aun peor muchas veces. 

Each of us is as Ood made him, ay, and often worse. ii. 4. 

81. Dios bendijb la paz y maldijo las rinas. 

Ood gave his blessing to peace, and his curse to quarrels. 

II. 14. 

82. Dios que da la llaga da la medicina. 

Ood who gives the wound gives the salve. ii. 19. 

83. Quien yerra y se enmienda, 

A Dios se encomienda. 

Who sins and mends commends himself to Ood. ii. 28. 

Celestina, act vii. 


APPENDIX L 


513 


84. 


85. 


86 . 


87. 


88 . 


89. 


90. 


91. 


92. 


93. 


94. 


96 . 


Mas vale 4 quien Dios ayuda 
Que quien mucho raadruga. 

He whom God helps does heller than he who gels up early. 

ii. 84. 

Garay. Carta 1. 3. 

A Dios rogando 
Y con el mazo dando. 

Praying to God and plying the hammer, n. 35, 71. 

Ital. : “ Invoca i Santi e da di pi^lio all’ aratro.” 

French ; “ Dieu donne fil a toile ourdie.” 

Lat. : “ Dii facientes adjuvant.” 

Garay. Carta 1. — Cei’vantes, La Gitanilla. 

Dios sufre los malos, pero no para siempre. 

God bears with the wicked, but not forever, ii. 40. 

Portuguese : Dios consente, mas nao sempre. 

A quien Dios quiere, su casa le sabe. 

Whom God loves, his house is sweet to him. ii. 43. 

Variations are : “ lo sabe,” “ knows it;” and “su caza le sale,” “his 
hunting prospers.” 

Garay. Carta 3. 

Quando Dios amanece, para todos amanece. 

When God sends the dawn he sends it for all. n. 49. 

El hombre pone y Dios dispone. 

Man proposes, God disposes. n. 55. 

La Gitanilla. 

Dios lo oiga y pecado sea sordo. 

May God hear it and sin be deaf, n. 58, 65. 

La Doncella honesla 
El hacer algo es su fiesta. 

To be busy at something is a modest maids hoKday. n. 5. 
Mientras se Duerme todos son iguales. 


While we are asleep we are all equal. 

n. 

43. 

A1 Enemigo que huye, la puente ,de plata. 

To a flying enemy, a bridge of silver. 

n. 

58. 

De los Enemigos los menos. 

Of enemies the fewer the better. 

n. 

14. 

A1 buen Entendedor pocas palabras. 

To one who has his ears open, few words. 

11. 

37 


A bon entendeur salut. 

Intel ligenti pauca. 

Dictum sapienti. 

Portuguese : A bom entendedor, poucas palavras. 
VoL. II. — 33 


614 


DON QUIXOTE, 


96. 


97. 


98. 


99. 


100 . 

101 . 

102 . 

103. 


104. 

105. 

106. 

107. 

108. 


Erase que se era. 

What has been has been. . I. 20. 

Mas vale buena Esperanza que ruin posesion. 

Better a good hope than a bad holding. n. 7, 65. 

No hay Estomago que sea un palmo mayor que otro. 

There 's no stomach a hand'^s breadth bigger than another. 

II. 33. 

Jo ! que te Estrego, 

Burra de mi suegro. 

Whoa, then ! why, I ’m rubbing thee down, she-ass of my 
father-in-law. ii. 10. 

An exclamation used when people take amiss what is meant for civility. 

Sobre un huevo pone la Gallina. 

The hen will lay on one egg. ii. 7. 

Viva la Gallina, aunque sea con su pepita. 

Let the hen live, though it be with her pip. n. 5, 65. 

Portuguese : “ Viva a gallinha, viva com sua pevide.*' 

Quien ha de llevar el Gato al agua ? 

Who will carry the cat to the water i. 8. 

Buscar tres pi 6s al Gato. 

To look for three feet on a cat. i. 22 ; ii. 10. 

Meaning, to look for an impossibility; of course it should be “cinco,” 
“ five ; ” and so it stands in Garay. Cai’ta 3, and in the Academy 
Dictionary. 

No hay para venderme el Gato por la liebre. 

You need nH try to sell me the cat for the hare ii. 26. 

De noche todos los Gatos son pardos. 

By night all cats are gray. n. 33. 

Guzman de Alfarache, II. ii. 5. 

Una Golondrina no hace verano. 

One swallow does not make summer. i. 13 . 

Ital. : “ Una rondine non fa primavera.** 

The Portuguese add : “ One finger does not make a hand ; ’* “ Nem 
hum dedo faz mao, nem huma andorinha faz verao.” 

No pidas de grado lo que puedes tomar por fuerza. 

Don't ask as a favor what you can take by force. i. 21. 

Como quien dice, “ bebe con Guindas.” 

Just as if it was, “ drink with cherries.''' n. 35. 

i.e., a very natural and proper accompaniment; an equivalent saying is, 
“ miel sobre hojuelas,” “ honey on pancakes.” ° 


APPENDIX I. 


615 


109. La mejor salsa del mundo es la Hambre. 

Hunger is the best sauce in the world. ii. 5. 

110. Las ffrandes Hazanas para los grandes hombres estdn guar- 

dadas. 

Great deeds are reserved for great men. ll. 23. 

X bon chat bon rat. 

Portuguese : A grande cao, grande osso. 

111. Hidalgo honrado, 

Xntes roto que remendado. 

The gentleman of honor ragged sooner than patched. ii. 2. 

112. Cada uno es Hijo de sus obras. 

Each of us is the son of his own works. i. 4, 47 ; ii. 32. 

113. A1 Hijo de ta vecino, limpiale las narices y in^tele en tu casa. 

Wipe the nose of your neighbor''s son, and take him into your 
house. II. 6. 

- Donado Hablador, Pt. I. c. 2. 

114. Por el Hilo 

Se saca el ovillo. 

By the thread the ball is brought to light. i. 4, 30 ; ii. 12. 
i.e., the ball on which it is wound. 

115. X quien cuece y aniasa 
No le hurtes Hogarza. 

There 's no stealing a loaf from him that kneads and bakes. 

II. 33. 

This is the explanation of Garay. Carta 1, and of the Acad. Diet. ; some 
there are, however, who understand it in the sense of “thou must 
not,” i.e., “ not muzzle the ox that treads out the corn.” 


116. 

Pues tenemos Hogazas no busquemos tortas. 

As we have loaves, let us not go looking for cakes. 

II. 13. 

117. 

Debajo de ser Hombre puedo venir A ser papa. 
Being a man I may come to be Pope. 

II. 47. 

118. 

Por su mal nacieron alas d la Hormiga. 

To her hurt the ant got wings. 

n. 33, 63. 

119. 

Hoy por ti y manana por mi. 

To-day for thee, to-morrow for me. 

u. 65. 

120. 

A1 freir de los Hiievos (se verd). 

•; 


When the eggs come to be fried {we shall see ) . 


I. 37. 


516 

DON QUIXOTE. 


121. 

Iglesia, 6 mar, 6 casa real (quien quiere medrar). 

The church, the sea, or the Royal Household (for 
would prosper.) 

him who 
I. 39. 

122. 

Aquel que dice Injurias cerca estd de perdonar. 

He that rails is ready to forgive. 

n. 70. 

123. 

Todo Junto como al perro los palos. 

All at once, like sticks on a dog. 

Garay. Carta 1. 

n. 68. 

124. 

Muchos van por Lana y vuelven trasquilados. 



Many a one goes for wool and comes back shorn. 

I. 7 ; II. 14, 43, 67. 

Poem of Fernan Gonzalez (13th cent.) — Cronica General, Part III. — 
Guzman de Alfarache, II. ii. 2. 

125. Nunca la Lanza embot6 la plunaa, ni la pluma la lanza. 

The lance never yet blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance. 1 . 18. 
Quoted by the Marques of Santillana in his Introduction to his Proverbs. 

126. Tantas Letras tiene un no como un si. 

Nay has the same number of letters as yea. i. 22. 

127. La Letra con sangre entra. 

It ’s with the blood that letters enter. ii. 36. 

Donado Hablador, Pt. I. c. 1. 

128. No hay Libro tan malo que no tiene algo bueno. 

There ’s no book so bad but has some good in it. ii, 3, 59. 

From Pliny. — Lazarillo de Tormes, Preface. — Guzman de Alfarache. 
— Viaje Entretenido of Rojas. 

129. Donde no (or menos) se piensa, salta (or levanta) la Liebre. 

The hare jumps up where one least expects it. li. 10, 30. 

Garay. Carta i. 

130. Ese te quiere bien que te hace Llorar. 

He loves thee well that makes thee weep. i. 20. 

“ El que bien te quiere, aquel te habri castigado.” — 

Ballad of Don Manuel de Leon ; Rosas de Timoneda. 
“ But most chastises those whom most he likes.” — Pomfret. 

131. Bien vengas Mai, si vienes solo. 

Welcome evil, if thou comest alone. ii. 55. 

Another reading has a different punctuation and makes it mean, “ Wel- 
come, but not so if you come alone.” 

Ga«»y. Carta 4. 


APPENDIX L 


617 


132. El Mai ajeno de pelo cuelga. 

The ills of others hang by a hair. II. 28. 

Another reading ia duelo— pain. 

Portuguese : Mai alheio peza como hum cabello. 

Celestiua, act xii. Garay. Carta 4. 

133. Un Mai llama d otro. 

One ill calls up another. ' i. 28. 

Italian: “ Un Malo tira I’altro.” 

134. Buscar d Marica por Rabena, 6 al bachiller en Salamanca. 

To look for Mairca (Molly) in Ravenna^ or the bachelor in 
Salamanca. ii. 10. 

Where every other man is a bachelor. 

A needle in a bundle of hay. 

135. Buenas son Mangas despues de pascua. 

Sleeves are good after Easter. i. 31. 

A good thing ia never out of season. 

Compare the Scotch : “ A Yule feast may be done at Pasch.” 

Celestina, act ix. Guzman de Alfarache*, II. iii. 2. Garay. Carta 1. 

136. Muera Marta 

Y muera harta. 



Let Martha die^ but let her die with a full belly. 
Garay. Carta 4. 

n. 69. 

137. 

Serd mejor no Menear el arroz aunque se pegue. 
Better not stir the rice, even though it sticks. 

II. 37. 

138. 

No es la Miel para la boca del asno. 

Honey is not for the ass's mouth. 

I. 52 ; II. 28. 

139. 

Haceos Miel y paparos ban mosoas. 

Make yourself honey and the flies will suck you. 
Garay. Carta 1. 

II. 43, 49. 

140 

Es menester que el que ve la Mota en el ojo ajeno, vea la viga 
en el suyo. 

He thal sees the mote in another's eye had need to see the beam 
in his own. ii. 43. 

141. 

Muchos pocos hacen un Mucho. 

Many tittles make a much. 

Scottic6 : “ Mony smas mak a muckle.” 

II. 7. 

142. 

Entre dos Muelas cordales 

Nunca pongas tus pulgares. 

Never put thy thumbs between two back teeth. 

Italian : Tra I’incudine e il martello, 

Man non metta chi ha cervello. 

II. 43. 


518 DON QUIXOTE. 


143. 

Espantbse la Muerta de la degollada. 

The dead woman was frightened at the one with her throat cut. 

II. 43. 


Better maravilldse, was astonished. Sometimes it is given 
death ; but this is the older form. 

Garay. Carta 1. 

La Muerte, 

144. 

Todas las cosas tienen remedio, sino es la Muerte. 
Everything can be cured, except death. 

(A better form of the proverb is No. 146.) 

II. 10. 

145. 

Hasta la Muerte todo es vida. 

Until death it is all life. 

II. 59. 

146. 

Para todo hay remedio, sino es para la Muerte. 

There is a remedy for everything except death. 
Italian: “ A tutto c’ erimedio fuoi-che alia morte.” 

II. 43, 64. 

147. 

El Muerto 4 la sepultura y el vivo 4 la hogaza. 

The dead to the grave and the living to the loaf. 

I. 19. 

148. 

La Mujer honrada, la pierna quebraday en casa. 

The respectable woman {should have) a broken leg and keep 
at home. ii. 5, 34, 49. 

149. 

El consejo de la Mujer es poco, 



Y el que no le toma es loco. 

A woman's advice is no great things, but he who wonH take it 
IS a fool. n. 7. 

Garay. Carta 3. 

150. La Mujer y la gallina 
For andar se pierden aina. 

The woman and the hen by gadding about soon get lost. 

II. 49. 

Portuguese : A molher e a galhinha, por andar se perde asiuha. 

151. Lo que has de dar al Mur, ddla al gato, 

Y sacarte ha de ciiidado. 

What thou hast to give to the mouse give to the cat, and it will 
relieve thee of all trouble. ii. 56. 

152. Donde hay Musica no puede haber cosa mala. 

Where there 's music there can't be mischief. ii. 34. 

Plattdeutsch : “Wo man singt, da lass dich ruhig nieder! ” — Sa de 
Diiwell, do sett he sich mit’n aars iu’m immen swarm. 

153. No con quien Naces, 

Sino con quien paces. 

Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed. 

u. 10. 32, 68. 


APPENDIX L 


519 


154. 


155. 

156. 

157. 

158. 

159. 

160. 


161. 

162. 

163. 

164. 


En los Nidos de antano 

No hay pdjaros hogano. 

There are no 5^vSs this year in last year'^s nests. n 74. 

Garay. Carta 3. 

No hallar Nidos donde se piensa hallar pajaros. 

Not to find nests where one thinks to find birds. ii. 15. 

Cf. No. 226. 

Mas vale el buen Nombre que miichas riquezas. 

A good name is better than great riches. ii. 33. 

Oficio que no da de comer d su dueno no vale dos habas. 

A trade that does not feed its master is not worth two beans. 

II. 47. 

Oficios mud an costumbres. 

Office changes mamiers. ii. 4. 

Ojos que no ven, corazon que no quiebra. 

If eyes dorCt see, heart don't break. ii. 67. 

Plattdeutsch : Wat de oogen nich seht dat krSnkt de hart ook nich. 

Plegue k Dios que Oregano sea, 

Y no se nos vuelva alcaravea. 

God grant it may prove wild marjoram, and not turn caraway 

on us. i. 21. 

Used in the case of some doubtful venture or experiment. I can find 
no explanation of the origin of this proverb. Why should wild mar- 
joram and caraway have been taken as types of the desirable and un- 
desirable ? Possibly it may be that oregano was chosen because the 
word suggested oro. gold, and gano — the old form of ganancia — 
gain, advantage ; and alcaravea because it had a sort of resemblance 
in sound to algarabia, gibberish, jabber ; — so that the whole may 
mean pai-abolically a wish for something solid and advantageous, 
instead of mere talk or rubbish. Oregano occurs in chap, xxxvi. Pt. 
II. in the sense of “ eager for gain.” 

No es Oro todo que reluce. 

All that glitters is not gold. ii. 33, 48. 


Cada Oveja 
Con su pareja. 

Every ewe to her like. n. 19, 53. 

Portuguese : Cada ovelha com sua parelh*. 

Paciencia y barajar. 

Patience and shuffie (the cards') . ii. 23. 

A1 buen Pagador no le duelen prendas. 

Pledges don't distress a good pdymaster. 

II. 14, 30, 34, 59, 71. 

i.e., one who is Sure of hi* ability to pay. 


520 


DON QUIXOTE. 


165. Pagan k las veces justos por pecadores. 

The righteous sometimes pay for the sinners. i. 7 ; n. 57. 

166. De Paja 6 de heno 
El jergon lleno. 

With straw or with hay the mattress is filled. ii. 3, 33. 

167. Mas vale Pdjaro en mano que buitre volando. 

Better a sparrow in the hand than a vulture on the wing. 

I. 31; II. 12, 31, 71. 

PdjarOy passer, is specifically a sparrow, but generally any small bird. 
Garay. Cartal,4. 

168. Palo compuesto no parece palo. 

A stick dressed up does not look like a stick. n. 51. 

169. Si al Palomar no le falta cebo, no le faltardn palonias. 

If the pigeon-house don't lack food, it wont lack pigeons, ii. 7. 
Ubi melibi apes. 

170. Con su Pan se lo come. 

With his hreojd let him eat it. ii. 25. 

“ That ’s his look-out.” 

171. Buscar Pan de trastrigo. 

To look for better bread than ever came of wheat, i. 7 ; ii. 67. 
TrastHgo is an obscure word, but the application is unquestionably to 
seeking things out of season or out of reason. 

172. Tan buen Pan hacen aqui como en Francia. 

They make as good bread here as in France. n. 33. 

173. Los duel os con Pan son menos. 

With bread all woes are less. n. 13, 55. 

Another reading is llevaderos, endurable. 

Donado Hablador, Pt. I. c. 7. 

174. El Pan comido y la compania deshecha. 

The bread eaten and the company dispersed. n. 7. 

Portuguese : Pao comesto, companhia desfeita. 

175. En manos esta el Pandero que le sabrdn bien taner. 

The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well 
enough. n. 22. 

176. Un diablo Parece a otro. 

One devil is like another. i. 31. 

Another form is : “ Hay muchos diablos que parecen unos a otros.” 


APPENDIX 1. 


521 


177. A Pecado nuevo, penitencia nueva. 

For a fresh sin a fresh penance, I. 30. 

178. Algo va de Pedro d Pedro. 

There '‘s some difference between Peter andPeter, i. 47. 

179. Quien busca Peligro, perece en el. 

He who seeks danger perishes in it, I. 20. 

180. Pedir Peras al olmo. 

To ask pears of the elm tree. i. 22 ; ii. 52. 

Garay. Carta 3, has a racy equivalent: ** Pedir muelae al gallof to 
look for grinders in a cock. 

181. A otro Perro con ese hueso. 

Try that bone on some other dog. I. 32. 

Garay. Carta 1, 4. Guzman de Allarache, I. ii. 6* 

182. No quiero Perro con cencerro. 

/ do not want a dog with a bell. I. 23. 

i.e., with an adjunct that will be an inconvenience. 

183. A Perro viejo no hay “ tus, tus.” 

With an old dog there'^s no good in “ tus, tus.^^ il. 33, 69. 

A propitiatory phrase addressed to dogs of uncertain temper and inten- 
tions. 

Garay. Carta 1.4. 

184. Vi6se el Perro 

En bragas de cerro, 

Y no conocio su companero. 

The dog saw himself in hempen breeches and did not know his 
comrade. ii. 50. 

In Mai Lara it is “the clown Vi6se el villano, etc. ; y fiero que 
fiero,” “ as proud as proud could be.” 

Ital. : Villano nobilitato non conosce suo parentado. 

185. Uno Piensa el bayo, otro quien le ensilla. 

The bay is of one mind, he who saddles him of another, ii. 15. 

186. De la mano d la boca 
Se Pierde la sopa 

Between hand and mouth the sop gets lost. i. 22. 

The prdverb does not appear in this shape, but it was j)robably the one 
of which Ceiwantes was thinking when he wrote “ hielan las migajas 
entre la boca y la mano.” 

187. Nadie tienda mds la Pierna de cuanto fuere larga la sdbana. 

Let no one stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet. ll. 53 
Portuguese ; Cada hum estenda a perna ate onde tern a cuberta. 


DON QUIXOTE. 


522 

188. Lo que hoy se Pierde se gane manana. 

What ’5 lost to-day may be won to-morrow. l. 7. 

189. No ociipa mas Pies di tierra el cuerpo del Papa que el del 

sacristan. 

The pope'^s body does nH take up more feet of earth than the 
sacristan's. ii. 33. 

190. Lo que cuesta Poco se estima en menos. 

What costs little is valued less. I. 34, 43. 

191. Bien Predica quien bien vive. 

He preaches well who lives well. ii. 20. 

192. A1 dejar este mundo y meternos la tierra adentro, poi tan 

estrecha sendera va el Principe como el jornalero. 

When we quit this world and go underground, the prince 
travels by as narrow a path as the journeyman. ii. 33. 

193. A cada Puerco viene su san Martin. 

His Martinmas comes to every pig. ii. 62. 

St. Martin’s Day being the usual time in Spain for killing pigs. 
Portuguese : Cada porco tem seu S. Martinho. Garay. Carta 1. 

194. Donde una Puerta se cierra otra se abre. 

When one door shuts, another opens. I. 21. 

Garay. Carta 1. Lazarillo de tormes. 

195. Poner Puertas al carapo. 

To put gates to the open plain. l. 25; n. 55. 

Sometimes it runs : “ querer aUr las lenguas es querer,” etc., “ Trying 
to stop people’s tongues is trying to,” etc. 

196. Cada puta bile. 

Let every jade mind her spinning. i. 46. 

197. Mas vale buena Queja que mala paga. 

Better a good grievance than a bad compensation. n. 7 . 
Garay. Carta 1. 

198. Pasar la Raya y llegar d lo vedado. 

To cross the line and trespass on the forbidden. i. 20. 

r 

199. Alld dards Rayo > 

En casa de Tamayo. 

Fall, thunderbolt, yonder on Tamayo'' s house. • n. 10. 

(So long as you don’t fall on mine.) 

200 . A buen salvo estd el que Repica. 

The bellringer "'s in a safe birth. n. 31, 36, 43. 

Out of the danger, whatever it be, of which he is giving warning- 
Celestina, act xi. Garay. Carta 3. 


APPENDIX L 


523 


201. Debajo de mi manto al Rey mato. 

Under my cloak I kill the king. l. Preface. 

The older and more correct form is “ al rey mando/* “ give commands 
to the king,” i.e., recognize no superioi*. 

Portuguese : Em sua casa, cada qiial he Rei. 

202. Mas vale migaja del Rey, que merced del Senor. 

Better the king'^s crumb than the lord's favor. i. 39. 

The Marquis of Santillana and the Comendador Nunez give it : Mas vale 
meajas del Rey que zatico de caballero. 

Portuguese : Melhor he migalha de Rei, que raerce de Senhor. 

203. Ni quite Rey, ni pongo Rey. 

I neither put down king nor set up king. ii. 60. 

The words of Henry of Trastamara’s page when he helped his master 
to get the better of Pedi’o the Cruel ; from the ballad on the death 1)f 
King Pedro. 

204. Alld van leyes ® 

Do quieren Reyes. 

Laws go as kings like. i. 45 ; ii. 5, 37. 

To decide the dispute in 1085 as to which of the two rituals, the Moz- 
arabic or the French, should be adopted, it was agreed to put a copy 
of each in the fire, and choose the one that escaped. The Mozarabic 
remained unburned, but Alfonso VI., being in favor of the other, 
threw it back into the flames. Hence, it is said, the proverb. The 
Portuguese have it also, as well as two othei's to the same effect, “ La 
vao leis, onde querem cruzados” (i.e., money), and, “La vao leis 
onde VOS quereis.” 

205. Las nececlades del Rico por sentencias pasan en el mundo. 

The silly sayings of the rich pass for saws in the world, ii. 43. 

206. Bien se esta San Pedro a Roma. 

Bt. Peter is very well at Rome. ii. 41, 53, 59. 

Portuguese ; Bern esta S. Pedro em Roma. 

207. A Roma por todo. 

To Rome for everything. n. 52. 

208. Cuando d Roma fueres 
Haz como vieres. 

When thou art at Rome do as thou shall see. ii. 54. 

209. La Rueda de la Fortuna anda mas lista que una rueda de 

molina. 

The wheel of Fortune goes faster than a mill-wheel. i. 47. 

210. Ruin sea quien por ruin se tiene. 

Mean be he who thinks himself mean. l. 21. 

Garay. Carta 1. 


V 


524 DON QUIXOTE, 

211. Quien las sabe las tane. 

Let him who knows how ring the bells. ii. 59. 

212. Mas vale Salto de mata que ruego de hombres buenos. 

Better a clear escape than good men'' s prayers, i. 21 ; ii. 67. 

“ Mata ” is the old form of “ matanza,” slaughter, punishment. The 
provei'b is almost turned into nonsense, such as “ an assassin’s leap,” 
a leap from a bush, etc. Garay. Carta 1. 

213. La Sangre se hereda y la virtud se aquista. 

Blood is an inheritance, virtue an acquisition. ii. 42. 

214. A1 buen caliar llarnan Sancho. 

Sage silence is called Sancho. ii. 43. 

Corrupted probably from “ Santo ; ” another form was “ sage,” prudent. 

• Garay. Carta 1. 

215. Dijo la Sarten k la caldera, 

“ Quitate alia, culnegra.” 

Said the frying-pan to the kettle, “ Oet away, black-breech.'''' 

II. 67. 

In the text it is “ojinegra,” “black-eye.” In the “ Dialogo de las 
lenguas” it runs, “tira alld culnegra;” and in the Marquis of Santil- 
lana’s proverbs it is the “,tirte alld.” Another form is, “ dijo la 
corneja al cuervo, quitate alii, negro : ” said the crow to the raven, 
“ get away, blackamoor.” 

216. El Sastre del Campillo, 

Que cosia de balde y ponia el hilo. 

The tailor of El Campillo who stitched for nothing and found 
thread. i. 48. 

There are two or three versions ; El sastre del cantillo, and El sastre 
(or alfayate) de la encrucljada (the tailor of the cross-roads) ; but it 
is evidently a place-proverb. Campillo, or El Campillo, is the name 
of at least a score of places in Spain. “ El Sastre del Campillo ” is 
the title of plays by Belmonte and Candamo, and of a tale by Santos. 

217. A buen Servicio mal galardon. 

For good service a bad return. ii. 66. 

218. Arrojar {or echar) la Soga tras el caldero. 

To throw the rope after the bucket. ii. 9. 

Lazarillo de Tormes. — Garay. Carta 1. 

Fx'ench : Jeter le manche apr^s la cognee, “ to throw the helve after the 
hatchet.” 

219. No se ha de mentar la Soga en casa del ahorcado. 

The rope must not be mentioned in the house of a man that 
has been hanged. l. 25 ; n. 28. 

220. Aun hay Sol en las bardas. 

There is still sunshine on the wall. 

The day is not yet over. 


n. 3. 


APPENDIX 1. 


625 


221 . 

222 . 

223. 

224. 

225. 

226. 

227. 

228. 

229. 

230. 

231. 

232. 

283 . 


Tanto vales, cuanto tienes. 

As much as thou hast, so much art thou worth, ii. 20, 43. 


En la Tardanza suele estar el peligro. 
In delay there is apt to be danger. 


I. 29, 46; II.' 41, 71. 


Doslinajes solo hay en el mundo, el “Tener”y el “no tener.” 

There are only two families in the worlds the Have''s and the 
Have n'Ts. n. 20. 


Cual el Tienipo, tal el tiento. 

As the occasion, so the behavior. 

2s o son todos los Tiempos unos. 
All times are not alike. 


n. 50, 65. 
n. 35. 


Muchos piensan que hay Tocinos donde no hay estacas. 

Many a one fancies there are flitches where there are no pegs. 

I. 25; II. 10, 55, 65, 73. 

i.e., not even anything to hang them on. 

Mas vale un “ Toma ” que dos “ te dare.” 

One “ take'^'' is better than two “ i’ZZ give thee‘s.'''' ii. 7, 35, 71. 
Garay. Carta 1. 


Ciertos son los Toros. 

There ’s no doubt about the bulls. 


i. 35. 


It ’s all right ; we may make our minds easy. A popular phrase on the 
eve of a bull-fight. 


Tortas y pan pintado. 
Cakes and fancy bread. 


II. 2, 17, 63, 68. 


Aunque la Traicion aplace, el traidor se aborrece. 

Though the treachery may please, the traitor is detested, i. 39. 
The version of the Comendador Nunez is : “ Traicion aplace, mas no el 
que la hace.” 

The Portuguese is better : Paga-se o Rey da trai^ao, mas do traidor nao. 

Quien k mi me Trasquilo, las tijeras le quedaron en la mano. 
He who clipped me has kept the scissors. ii. 37. 

Tripas llevan pies, que ho pies k tripas. 

It 's the tripes that carry the feet, not the feet the tripes, n. 34,.47. 
Another form is : “ Tripas llevan corazon.” 

No se toman Truchas 
A bragas enjutas. 

There"' s no taking trout with dry breeches. ii. 71. 

La Gitanilla. — Ital. : Non si pub avere de’ pesci senza immolarsi. 


626 


DON QUIXOTE. 


234. Coma por los cerros de tJbeda. 

Like “ over the hills of tJbeda.'^'* il. 33, 43, 67. 

Used in reference to anythinf? wide of the mark; that has nothing to do 
with the subject in hand. See Note 1, page 234, chap, xxxiii. vol. ii. 

235. En cada tierra su Uso. 

Every country has a way of its own. n. 9. 

236. Cuando te dieron la Vaquilla, 

Corre con la soguilla. 

When they offer thee a heifer ^ run with a halter. 

n. 4, 41, 50, 62. 

Gai-ay. Carta 1. 

237. Cada uno es artifice de su Ventura. 

Each is the maker of his own fortune. n. 66. 

“ Sed res docuit id veruin esse quod in carmiuibus Appius ait, Fabrum 
esse suae quemque Fortunae.” Sallust, Oratio I. 

238. Lo que Veo con los ojos, con el dedo lo senalo. 

What I can see with my eyes I point out with my finger, ii. 62. 
Better, “con el dedo lo adevino.” Garay. Carta 1. 

239. La que es deseosa de Ver, tambien tiene deseo de ser vista. 

She who is eager to see is eager also to be seen. n. 49. 

240. La Verdad adelgaza y no quiebra. 

The truth may run fine but will mt break. ii. 17. 

Ital. : La verity pu j languire ma non perire. 

241. La Verdad siempre anda sombre la mentira como el aceite 

sobre el agua. 

Truth always rises above falsehood, as oil rises above water. 

II. 17, 50. 

The Comendador Nunez has it ; “La verdad como el olio siempi*e anda 
en somo.” 

Portuguese : A verclade e o azeite andao de cima. 

242. Mas vale Verguenza en cara, que mancilla en corazon. 

Better a blush on the cheek than a sore in the heart. n. 44. 

243. El que larga Vida vive, mucho mal ha de pasar. 

He who lives a long life has to go through much evil. n. 32. 

244. Regost6se la Vieja k los bledos, ni dej6 verdes ni secos. 

The old woman took kindly to the blits, and did not leave 
either green or dry. ii. 69. 

Bledo, amaranthus blitum. Fr. blette. Germ, blutkraut; used in some 
parts as a substitute for spinach. “ L’appetit vient en mangeant.” 
Portuguese: Avezou-se a velha aos bredos, lambe-lhe os dedos. 


APPENDIX L 


527 


245. 

A mal Viento va esta parva. 

This corn is being winnowed in a bad wind. 

II 68. 

246. 

Hacer bien d Villanos es echar agua en la mar. 

To do good to clowns is to throw water into the sea. 

I. 23. 

247. 

De mis Vinas vengo, no s6 nada. 

I come from my vineyard, I know nothing. 

It 's no use asking me about it. 

I. 25. 

248. 

Cada uno mire por el Virote. 



Let each look out for the arrow. ii. 14, 49. 


Covari’ubias explains it as a phrase taken from rabbit-sbootino: with the 
cross-bow — meaning, let each look for his own arrow, i.e. mind his 
own business ; according to him, virote is a bolt used for shooting 
small game, not an arrow used in warfare. 

• 

249. Bueno es Vivir para ver. 

It ’5 well to live that one may learn. n. 32. 

250. Vivir mas afios que sarna. 

To live longer than itch. i. 12. 

Properly it is “ ser mas viejo que sarna,” to be older than itch. 

251. No se gan6 Zamora 
En una hora. 

Zamora was not won in an hour. n. • 7 1 . 

Portuguese : Em huma hora nao se ganhou Camera, “ Rome was not 
built in a day.” Plattdeutsch : De boom fallt nich van een slag. An 
allusion to the long siege of Zamora in 1072, at which Sancho II. 
lost his life. 

252. Cada uno sabe donde le aprieta el Zapato. 

Each knows where the shoe pinches him. l. 32 ; ii. 33. 


u 


528 


DON QUIXOTE, 


II. 


THE SPANISH ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 

The Chivalry Romances of Western Europe fall naturally into three 
groups, the British, the French, and the Spanish; the first that which 
has the legend of Arthur and the Round Table for its nucleus ; the 
second, that which formed round the legend of Charlemagne and the 
Twelve Peers ; and the third composed of the Amadis and Palmerin 
series and a vast number of isolated romances, some independent, but 
most of them obviously inspired by the Amadis. 

Cervantes, with that sound critical instinct which he always shows in 
such matters, treats the Arthurian legend as the fountain-head of chivalry 
romance (chap. xiii. Part I.), and his frequent references to it prove the 
attraction it had for him ; but what Mr. J. A. Symonds observes ,of Italy 
is true also of Spain in general, as regards the Arthurian story. It was 
obviously appreciated by a few, but it does not seem to have taken root, 
or naturalized itself with the nation at large in the same way as the 
Carlovingian. The ballads alone sufficiently prove this. There are only 
three or four, and those short ones, in any way related to the Arthurian 
legend, while those connected with the Charlemagne story are at least 
ten times as many in number, and in length, some of them, more properly 
chansons de geste than ballads. 

The Arthurian romances that were current in Spanish are : 

El Baladro del Sabio Merlin. Burgos, 11:98. 

A translation from the Italian of Messer Zarzi, 1379. One of the last chapters 
describes how Merlin at his death uttered a loud cry, “ baladro,” that was heard three 
leagues off; hence the title of the book. Don Pascual de Gayangos says there is no 
other edition, and he knows of no other copy but the one that was in the possession of 
the Marquis de Pidal. 

Merlin y la Demanda del Sancto Grial. Seville, 1500. 

Lihro del esforzado cavallero Don Tristan de Leonis. Valladolid, 1501. 
This edition is cited by Ebert : there are others of Seville, 1528, 1533, and 1534. 

La Demanda del Sancto Grial con los mar avillosos /echos de Lanzarote 
del Lago y de Galaz su hijo. Toledo, 1515; Seville, 1535. 

At the end it has, ” Aqui se acaba el segundo y postrero libro de la Demanda del 
Sancto Grial con el baladro del famosisimo profeta y nigromante Merlin, con bus 
profecias.” 

La Cronica de los nobles cavalleros., Tablante de Ricamonte y Jofre hijo 
de Don Azon. Toledo, 1515 and 1526. 

This is the book referred to in chap. xvi. Part I. Clemencin calls it a French story, 
and wrongly attributes it to Philip Camus. Gayangos thinks it may possibly be of 
Proven 5 al origin, but the earliest known form of it is the Spanish edition of Toledo, 1515. 

To these may be added the Portuguese romance : 

Triunfos de Sagramor ; feitos dos Cavalleiros da Segunda Tavola Re- 
donda. Coimbra, 1554. 


APPENDIX U, 


529 


To the genesis of the Arthurian romance we have no clew whatever. 
We cannot tell whether the Round Table story grew out of the Grail 
myth, or mce versa., or whether in Arthur and Merlin we have mere 
creatures of bardic imagination, or reminiscences of a chieftain and a 
counsellor who made their mark in the struggle in which the Britons 
were driven westward by the Saxons. But in the Carlo vingian legend 
we have the whole process before our eyes. We have the minute his- 
torical germ in the two sentences of Eginhard which record the destruc- 
tion of the rear-guard of Charlemagne’s army by the Gascons at 
Roncesvalles, and the death of Eggihard, Anselm, and Hruodland, the 
warden of the marches of Brittany; and if we have not the original lays 
in which in process of time the minstrels expanded the event, we have 
undoubtedly an early redaction of them in the Oxford MS. of the Chanson 
de Roland. We have the treachery of Ganelon put forward to furnish a 
satisfactory explanation of the disaster. Then we have the story passing 
out of its nonage of verse and oral transmission, and with yet further 
amplifications assuming the character of history and dignity of prose in 
the so-called chronicle of Turpin, and serving as a mine of material to 
romance writers like Adenez and Huon de Villeneuve ; and so by suc- 
cessive stages we trace it to the literary period when it falls into the 
hands of Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto. 

In some respects the most remarkable development of the Charle- 
magne legend was on the south side of the Pyrenees. For two very 
different reasons it had a strong attraction for the Spanish people. In 
the first place Charlemagne and his paladins had an interest for them as 
the enemies of their own enemies, the Saracens. It was impossible for 
them not to sympathize in some degree with his triumphs over their 
Moslem conquerors. On the other hand his passage of the Pyrenees was 
resented as an invasion of Spanish soil ; and the roUa dolorosa of Ron- 
cesvalles, from a massacre by wild mountaineers intent on plunder, as it 
was in reality, or the revenge of vindictive Saracens, as the Chanson de 
Roland represents it, became in time a retributive defeat inflicted by 
Spanish patriots led by Bernardo del Carpio, the circumstances being so 
manipulated as to harmonize with the traditional life of the hero. The 
ballads of the Carlovingian cycle were, it is almost needless to say, a 
purely national growth, in no way inspired by the lays of the French 
minstrels, and as such they have assigned them a large space in Wolf and 
Hoffmann’s admirable selection, which so jealously excludes all with a 
taint of foreign or artificial origin. They form, in fact, an independent 
Spanish Carlovingian series. In some few instances the personages of 
French romance appear in them ; Renaud de Montauban, for example, 
figures in four or five under the name of Reinaldos de Montalvan ; the 
subject of the most beautiful of them all is the dream of Dona Alda, 
Roland’s betrothed, of whom we have a glimpse in the Chanson de 
Roland, the Marquis of Mantua, so often mentioned in Don Quixote, is 
in fact the famous Ogier, or Holger, le Danois, and the subject of the 
ballad, the death of his nephew Baldwin at the hands of the Emperor’s 
son, Carloto, most likely a Spanish version of the French story that tells 
how a son of Ogier's was killed by the same Carloto or Chariot. But on 
the whole the characters and incidents of the ballads are entirely their 
own, and no counterparts are to be found beyond the Pyrenees for Mon- 
tesinos, Gaiferos, Guarinos, Durandarte, Conde Claros, Calainos, or the 

VoL. II. — 34 


530 


DON QUIXOTE, 


tales of which they are the heroes. The Carlo vingian romances of chiv- 
alry were, on the contrary, all importations. Without an exception they 
were translations or adaptations of works by foreigners, if we may judge 
by those known to bibliography, which are the following : 

Hystoria del Emperador Carlo magno y de los doce Pares de Francia. 
Cromberger, Seville, 1521. 

This edition, which is in the Huth Library, is apparently unknown to all the bibli 
ographers. The earliest that Gayangos has in his list is that of Seville, 1528. The 
book is a translation by Nicolas de Piaraonte (whose name, however, does not appear 
in the earlier editions), partly from the Latin Chronicle attributed to Turpin, partly 
from French works founded on it. It was reprinted seven or eight times in the 
sixteenth, and repeatedly in the next two centuries. Indeed it has never ceased to be 
popular, for to this day it circulates in an abridged form as a chap-book, an instance of 
^tality rare in chivalry romance literature. 

Reinaldos de Montalvan. Libro del noble y esforzado caballero . 

First and Second Parts, Toledo, 1523. 

Other editions, Salamanca, 1526, Seville, 1535. Nine in all appeared before the close 
of the century. Third Part, Seville, 1533; Fourth Part, Seville, 1542. A translation by 
Luis Dominiquez of the Italian Innamoramento di Carlo Magno. 

Guarino Mesquino. Coronica del noble cavallero . Seville, 1527. 

Mr. Quaritch of Piccadilly had lately a copy of this edition, which was previously 
unknown to bibliographers. There is a vague indication of one of 1512 in ‘he 
“ Biblioteca Colurabina ” at Seville, but the earliest known to Gayangos was that of 
Seville, 1548. The romance is usually included in the Charlemagne series, though the 
connection is but slight. It is of Italian origin, and is generally attributed to a thi.*- 
teenth-century author, Messer Andrea of Florence. The Spanish translator, according 
to Pellicar, was Alonso Hernandez Aleman. 

Espejo de eavallerias., en el qual se irata de los hechos del conde Don 
Roldan y Don Reynaldos. Seville, 1533. 

This edition is cited by Lenglet du Fresnoy; Brunet mentions one of 1545, and la 
the Grenville Library there is one of 1551. This, the reader will remember, is the book 
the curate, in chapter vi., consented to spare for Boiardo’s sake. It is in pan a prose 
version of Boiardo’s Orlando, and was the work of Pedro de Reinosa. The second 
part appears to have been by Pedro Lopez de Sta. Catalina. There has been a good 
deal of confusion about this book. Several authorities, Pellicer and Dunlop among 
others, have confounded it with the Espejo de princines y cavallerns, which is the first 
title of the Cavallero del Febo, a romance of a totally different character, and it has 
been also confounded by Vicente Salva and by Ciemencin with Reinaldos de Montal- 
van. Second and third parts appeared at Seville in 1536, and Toledo in 1547, and all 
three were printed together at Medina del Campo in 1536. 

Morgante. Libro del esforzado gig ante . First Part, Valencia, 

1533; Second Part, Valencia, 1535. 

These are two Valencia editions of 1533 of the first part. One Is in the Grenville 
Library. A translation from the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci. The second part is by 
the Valencian poet Geronimo de Auner. 

The Amadis of Gaul stands by right at the head of the third, the 
Spanish group of romances of chivalry. It is true that ” Tirant lo 
Blanch,” " Oliveros de Castilla,” " Merlin,” the “ Demanda del Grial,** 
"Tristan de Leonis,” and perhaps one or two more, preceded it in print; 
but there can be no doubt that long before these books made their 
appearance it was a popular romance widely read throughout the Penin- 
sula; and it was moreover, as the curate says, the true founder of 
Spanish chivalry romance. Until comparatively lately it was regarded as 


APPENDIX II. 


531 


unquestionable that the Araadis was a romance of Portuguese origin, 
although its oldest existing form was Spanish. The belief rested upon a 
positive statement by Gomez de Azurara, a Portuguese chronicler who 
wrote in the second half of the fifteenth century, that it was made by 
one man, Vasco de Lobeira by name, in the time of King Ferdinand 
(1367-83), and that everything in it was his invention. A sonnet in 
praise of Lobeira by Antonio Ferreira, who died in 1569, supports the 
assertion, but this can scarcely be accepted as independent testimony. 
There is, however, no reason to doubt that Vasco de Lobeira produced 
an Amadis of some sort, and that a manuscript of it was in existence as 
late as 1750; the real question is. What was the nature of this Amadis; 
was it original, translated, or remodelled? This question is exhaustively 
treated by Don Pascual de Gayangos in the masterly discurso on 
romances of chivalry prefixed to his edition of the Amadis and Esplan- 
dian (Biblioteca de Autores Espanoles, vol. xL), an essay which is now 
universally recognized as the first authority on the subject, and to Avhich 
I am largely indebted for the bibliographical details in this appendix, not 
by any means my only obligation to the same pen. We know but little 
about Vasco de Lobeira, in fact nothing more than that he was knighted 
by King John I. of Portugal, just before the battle of Aljubarrota, and 
that he died in 1403. Knighthood conferred under such circumstances 
proves, in Don Pascual’s opinion (and of course there is no higher 
authority on such a point) , that he must have been then under age ; at 
any rate it is clear that he was a young man in 1385, the year in which 
the battle was fought. Now there is indisputable evidence that at least 
thirty or forty years before this date there was extant, and widely known 
and read in Spain, an Amadis of which he could not possibly have been 
the author. The Castilian Chancellor, Pedro Lopez de Ayala, who by a 
curious coincidence was also present at the same battle of Aljubarrota, 
in the 162d quatrain of his " Rimado de Palacio,” which was written 
between 1367 and 1370, laments the time he had wasted over idle books 
like Amadis and Lancelot. This of course refers to the days of his 
youth, or, as he was born in 1332, to, as nearly as possible, the middle of 
the century. Another still more significant allusion is by a contemporary 
of the Chancellor, the old poet Pero Ferrus, who in some verses in the 
Cancionero of Baena speaks distinctly of an Amadis whose achieve- 
ments were to be found recorded in three books ; and two other writers 
of the same period in the same volume also refer to the story of an 
Amadis. In estimating the value of this evidence it should be borne in 
mind that in the fourteenth century, when one manuscript had to serve 
for many readers, and reproduction was so slow and costly, a book 
required far more time to become widely known than it did two centuries 
later ; and therefore when we find so many independent references to the 
existence of an Amadis in the middle of the century, it is no unreason- 
able assumption that it must have been produced at least as early as the 
year 1300. In the Amadis as we have it there are two or three state- 
ments bearing on the question. In the preface it is said that Garci 
Ordonez de Montalvo, wishing to leave behind him " some sort of memo- 
rial of himself,” corrected these three books of Amadis, which, by the 
errors of bad scribes and composers, were read in a very vitiated and 
corrupt form. By scribes, " escritores,” mere transcribers are, of course, 
meant, but by composers, " componedores,'* the wrker evidently means 


532 


DON QUIXOTE. 


something more than this, and gives us to understand that there was a 
variety of editions and texts of the Amadis. It is plain that Montalvo 
was acquainted with Lobeira’s version ; for in the first book, speaking of 
Briolania’s unrequited love for Amadis, he says that the Infante Don 
Alfonso of Portugal (who was not born till 1370), "taking compassion 
on the fair damsel, ordered it to be set down in a different manner. In 
this he followed what was his own good pleasure, but not what was 
actually written of their loves.” From this it seems clear, first, that in 
Montalvo’s opinion what Lobeira altered at the instance of the Infante 
was not his own work, but an already existing Amadis, which he was 
translating or putting into modern shape ; and secondly, that he himself 
did not folloAv Lobeira’s version, but some older and more trustworthy 
text. On the whole, therefore, the most reasonable conclusion appears 
to be that it was an error, on the part of Gomez de Azurara, to describe 
Lobeira as the author and inventor of the Amadis, and that he and 
Montalvo merely produced new editions of a romance that had been in 
circulation in the Peninsula since, at any rate, the beginning of the four- 
teenth century, In Sir Walter' Scott’s day the " Rimado de Palacio ” and 
the Cancionero of Baena, which go so far to support this view, were 
still in manuscript, but his instinct and his long practice in weighing evi- 
dence on questions of this kind led him to arrive at a similar conclusion, 
in opposition to Southey, who, starting from the same premises, decided 
in favor of the authorship of Lobeira. 

But the question remains. Does it follow that, because the Amadis was 
extant in Spain in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, it was therefore 
an indigenous Spanish romance? Most of those who have read it must 
have been struck by its resemblance in many respects, in its characters, 
incidents, and construction, to the romances of the Arthurian cycle. 
This of itself Avould prove nothing, for imitation of the Arthurian story 
was common in the earlier romances. Even the Charlemagne legend is 
formed to a great extent on the Arthurian. What, for instance, is the 
institution of the Twelve Peers, but an imitation of the Round Table? 
Indeed, in the Spanish ballads, which are many of them nearly as old as 
the Chanson de Roland, the Peers are made to sit at a table, and in one 
of the Marquis of Mantua series it is. even a round table — “mesa 
redonda.” But there is something more than imitation in the Amadis. 
The scene is laid on Arthurian ground; Gaula, Perion’s kingdom, is 
Wales; Bristoya, Bristol, is the port by which it communicates with the 
kingdom of Lisuarte, who holds his court at Vindilisora, Windsor; 
Garinter, the grandfather of Amadis, is King of Brittany; the Pena 
Pobre is off the Breton coast, and the Insula Firme is a part of Brittany 
or Normandy ; Amadis is repeatedly employed in chastising the kings and 
princes of Ireland ; he woos the peerless Oriana in London ; and Cori- 
sanda, the mistress of Florestan, is lady of the island of Gravesend. 
Why should a Spanish romance writer of the thirteenth or fourteenth 
century have gone for the scene of his story to regions so remote from 
the ken of his readers? Then there is a certain Arthurian, if not Celtic, 
flavor in the names, such as, for instance, Galaor, Galvanes, Gaidar. 
Gaitares, Gandales, Gandalod, Garinter, Garin (reminding one of Gawain, 
Galahad, Gareth), Brananda, Brandalia, Brandalisa, Brandonia, Branfil, 
Brian, and many more, the Spanish parentage of which is, at least, 
extremely doubtful. But the most suspicious feature of all is the 


APPENDIX IL 


533 


character of Urganda la Desconocidk. The absence of the supernatural 
is a remarkable characteristic in Spanish works of imagination. The 
only form, indeed, in which it can be said to be admitted is that of 
miracles and apparitions of Saints, for the magic and enchantments of 
the later romances of chivalry cannot be called an exception; and so 
foreign to the genius of Spanish literature are supernatural beings like 
those that abound in almost all others, that Wolf and Hoffmann, in the 
Primavera y Flor de Romances^ treat them as proof positive of a French 
or Breton origin. But Urganda, except that she is more amiable, is a being 
of exactly the same nature as Vivien and Morgan la Fay ; indeed the name 
is possibly only another form of Morgan or Morgand. She is, in fact, a 
genuine Celtic creation ; that is to say, the original Urganda of the first 
three books ; for it is very significant that when Montalvo took her in 
hand in Esplandian, he so little comprehended the original conception, 
that he transformed her into a commonplace enchantress. 

If the Amadis be indeed an indigenous Spanish ’•omance, it must have 
been written under the influence, and to a great extent in imitation, of 
the Arthurian romances. There are, however, it must be allowed, 
grounds for a suspicion that it may be after all a Spanish rifacimento of 
a romance by one of the many Anglo-Norman romancers, like Robert and 
Elie de Borron, Rusticien de Pise, or Lucas de Gast, who, in the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries, busied themselves in grafting new fictions on 
the Arthurian stem; and if in chronology it does not agree with the 
Arthur legend, the same may be said of Gyron le Courtois and Perce- 
forest. But whoever or whatever, Spaniard or Norman, its original 
author may have been, all critics have agreed that the Amadis deserves 
to the full the character Master Nicholas the barber gave it of being 
“the best of all the books of this kind that have been written.” As a 
romance, pure and simple, it may be inferior to Tristram, for example, 
but as a romance of chivalry it has no rival. It breathes the spirit and 
bears the impress of the age in which it was composed, when chivalry 
was a reality ; while its successors and imitators are merely actors acting 
a part, and driven to make up for a lack of true feeling by rant, bom- 
bast, and exaggeration. Hence the tenderness of Cervantes, whose only 
grudge against it was on the score of the mischievous consequences of its 
popularity. This is its great merit, but not its only one, for it is no less 
distinguished above its fellows by its invention and imagination, the 
powers of description it displays, and, above all, the strong human 
interest that pervades it. It is, no doubt, oppressively long, and in parts 
tedious and even ponderous ; but in this respect it is only of a piece with 
portentous meats and dishes described in the records of old banquets, 
of which the sturdier digestions of our ancestors made light, though we 
can scarcely read of them now without a shudder. 

Of Garci Ordonez de Montalvo, to whom we owe the book in its pres- 
ent form, we know nothing save that he was regidor of Medina del 
Campo, and completed it apparently between 1492 and 1504, as he refers 
to the conquest of Granada, and speaks as though Queen Isabella were 
living. It is not easy to say how much credit is his due, but it is a sus- 
picious circumstance that the fourth book, which, from the words he uses 
with regard to it, seems to be his own, is distinctly inferior to the first 
three ; and the Esplandian, about the authorship of which there can be 
no question, shows a still greater falling off. He may, hotvever, be fairly 


534 


DON QUIXOTE, 


credited with the language, in virtue of which the Amadis takes its place 
among the recognized masterpieces of old Spanish prose. But the most 
notable fact in connection with the Amadis is the influence it exercised 
on the literature of Spain, and nothing can illustrate this better than the 
following list of the Amadises, Palmerins, and kindred fictions, forming 
the Spanish group of chivalry romances : 

Amadis de Gaula. Los quatro lihros del muy esforgado cavallero , 

nuevamente emendados e hystoriados. S.L., but known to have been 
printed at Rome, 1519. 

There are other editions of Saragossa, 1521; Toledo, 1524; Seville, 1526 and 1531; 
Venice, 1533; and in all about twenty belonging to the sixteenth century are known. 
That of 1519 cannot possibly be the first. On this point the existence of a sixth book 
of the Amadis dated 1510, the “ Florisando,” described by Gallardo, is pretty conclu- 
sive; but even if it were not, besides the great Improbability of such a book being 
printed for the first time at Rome, it is extremely improbable that it should have lain 
unprinted for at least fifteen years, during which books to all appearances inr-pired by 
it, like Palmerin de Oliva and Primaleon, were coming out one after the other. How- 
ever, no earlier edition is known to exist; Lenglet du Fresnoy, Barbosa Machado, and 
Quadrio speak of one of 1510, and in Ferdinand Columbus’ catalogue to the Biblioteca 
Colombina at Seville there is a reference to one printed by Cromberger at Seville in 
1511. At the instance of Francis I., who beguiled his captivity with it in 1526, it was 
translated into French in 1540 by Nicholas de Herberay, Sieur des Essarts, and again, in 
the middle of the last century, in the very unfaithful and impure version of the Comte 
de Tressan. There are two English translations, that by Thomas Paynel, 1567, which is 
in the Huth Library, and Anthony Monday’s, 1595-1619, which, like all his translations, 
is from the French. It is to be noted that in the successors of Amadis of Gaul the 
scene of the adventures is transferred to the Turkish dominions. 

Esplandian. Las Sergas del muy virtuoso cavallero , hijo de 

Amadis de Gaula. Toledo, 1521. 

Fifth book of the Amadis series. Other editions, Salamanca, 1525; Burgos, 1526; 
and there are extant eight in all up to 1588. In the catalogue of Ferdinand Columbus a 
Seville edition of 1510 is mentioned, the existence of which would of course imply an 
Amadis of the same or an earlier date. Some of them are entitled, “ Ramo que de los 
quatro libros de Amadis de Gaula sale llanado Las Sergas, etc.” 

There is an English translation by Thomas Kirkman. 

Florisando. El sexto lihro de Amadis,^ el qual trata de los grandes y 

hazanosos f echos del valiente y esforqado , hijo del rey Don Flo- 

restan. Salamanca, 1510. 

Sixth book. Don Florestan was the brother of Amadis. The above edition is 
mentioned by Antonio, and Gallardo gives a minute description of a copy in the library 
of Don Jose de Salamanca. This, of course, almost amounts to proof positive of an 
edition of Amadis de Gaula prior to 1510. From the dedication it would appear that 
the author’s name was Paez de Rivera. 

Lisuarte. El septimo lihro de Amadis., en el qual se trata de los grandes 

/echos en armas de de Grecia y de Perion de Gaula. Seville, 

1525. 

Seventh book. Lisuarte was the son and Perion the brother of Esplandian. The 
author is not mentioned, but appears to have been that prolific master of rodomontade, 
Feliciano de Silva. Like all his books it was popular; there are at least ten editions of 
the sixteenth century. 

Lisuarte. El octavo lihro de Amadis., que trata de las extranas aven- 

turas y grandes proezas de su nieto de Grecia., y de la mMerte 

del inclito Amadis. Seville, 1526. 

Eighth book. By one Juan Diaz, apparently taking advantage of the popularity of 
Silva’s Lisuarte. 


APPENDIX II. 


535 


Amadis de Orecia. Cronica del muy valiente y esfor(^ado principe y 

cavallero de la ardienie Espada , hijo de Lisuarte. Burgos, 

1535. 

Ninth book. This was meant by Feliciano de Silva, its author, to be the eighth book 
of the Amadis, but he was forestalled by Juan Diaz. The hero was the son of Lisuarte. 
There must, of course, have been an earlier edition than that of 1535; the Biblioteca 
Colombina catalogue mentions one of 1530. There are six or seven sixteenth-century 
editions. 


Florisel de Niquea. La cronica de los muy valientes y esforqados e in- 
vencihles cavalleros , y el fuerte Anaxartes. Valencia, 1532. 

Tenth book, comprising the first and second parts of Florisel do Niquea; also the 
work of Feliciano de Silva. The heroes were sons of Amadis of Greece. Six or seven 
editions appeared within the century. 

Rogel de Grecia. Parte tercera de la chronica del muy excelente principe 
Don Florisel de Niquea.^ en la qual se trata de las grandes hazanas 

de y el segundo Agesilao. Seville, 1536. Quarta parte de la 

chronica.^ etc. (in two parts). Salamanca, 1551. 

These third and fourth parts of Florisel de Niquea, likewise by Feliciano de Silva, 
make up the Eleventh Book. The heroes are Agesilao, son of Falanges, a friend of 
Florisers, and Rogel of Greece, son of Florisel himself. There were half a dozen edi- 
tions before the close of the century. 

All these Amadises of Feliciano de Silva seem to have been special objects of detesta- 
tion to Cervantes. The reader will remember the curate’s outburst when Amadis of 
Greece is mentioned. Queen Pintiquiniestra appears ,in Lisuarte, and the shepherd 
Darinel in Amadis of Greece and Florisel de Niquea. 


Silves de la Selva. Comienza la dozena parte del invencihle cavallero 
Amadis de Gaula^ que trata de los grandes hechos en armas del esfor- 
<^ado cavallero Don . Seville, 1546. 

Twelfth Book ; by Pedro de Luxan, the author of Leandro el Bel, which is sometimes 
counted as the Thirteenth Book, but is in reality the continuation of Lepolemo. Silves 
de la Selva was the natural son of Amadis of Greece. 

Besides the above there are several doubtful members of the family, 
such as "Esferamundi de Grecia,” and "Penalva; ” the French, not con- 
tent with translating the whole, have added as many more, and the Italians 
nearly as many. But the foregoing constitute the genuine Spanish 
Amadis series, a series of books which, complete, would be a glory to 
any library in the world; which, in first editions, would now probably 
fetch a sum almost large enough to endow a college ; and which, if we 
except the founder of the sect, as Cervantes called it, is perhaps, rarity 
apart, as worthless a set of books as could be made up out of the refuse 
novels of a circulating library. In these respects, however, it has a rival 
in the Palmerin series, of which the following are the members : 


Palmerin de Oliva. El lihro del famo so y muy esforgado cavallero , 

Salamanca, 1511. 

The hero when an infant waa found among palms and olives on a mountain side, 
hence his title. According to tradition, the author was a lady of Augustobriga, but 
why tradition should be preferred to the statement in Primaleon that both works are by 
Francisco Vazquez of Ciudad Rodrigo, I know not. In popularity it rivalled any of the 
Amadis series, the Amadis itself excepted. Of the 1511 edition, the only copy known is 
in the Imperial Library at Vienna. An English translation in two parts, by Anthony 
Munday, appeared in 1588-97. 


536 


DON QUIXOTE. 


FHmaleon. Lihro segundo del emperador Palmerin., en que se recuentan 
los grandes y hazanosos f echos de y Polendos^ sus hijos. Sala- 

manca, 1512. 

According to Balva y Mallen, a copy of this edition was sold in 1865. The earliest 
previously mentioned was one of 1516, referred to in the Colombina Library catalogue 
and by Nicolas Antonio. There is unquestionably a Salamanca edition of 1524. 

Polindo. Historia del invencihle , hijo del rey Paciano, rey de 

Niimidia, Toledo, 1526. 

Its claim to be admitted into the series is very slight, as Polindo was, in fact, only the 
stepson of Polendos, the brother of Priraaleon, but Grayangos apparently thinks the 
author meant it to be a continuation, and therefore includes it in his list. 

Plaiir. Cronica del muy valiente y esfor^ado cahallero , hijo del 

emperador Primaleon. Valladolid, 1533. 

Author unknown. This by right ought to be the third of the Palmerins, Platir being 
the son of Priraaleon. Only one copy seems to be known, that in the library of Don 
Jose de Salamanca, formerly in the Alessandrina, Rome. 

Floriir. 

No edition in Spanish is known, and the only reason for supposing there ever was one 
is that there is an Italian Historia del cavalier Flortir, figliuolo dell' Imperator Platir 
(Venice, 1554), said to be a translation from the Spanish; but, as it was a trick of the 
Spanish romancers to pretend that they translated from Arabic, Latin, or English, so 
very likely the Italians may have sometimes feigned an obligation to the Spanish, which 
was in the sixteenth century the great mine of chivalry romance. 

Palmerin de Inglaterra. Lihro del muy esfort^ado cavallero , hijo 

del rey Don Duardos. Toledo, 1547. 

The hero was son of Duardos (Edward), a prince of England, and Florida, the 
daughter of Palmerin de Oliva. This, next to the Amadis, is the most famous of the 
romances, owing to the praise bestowed upon it by Cervantes, praise which is somewhat 
wanting in perspective. It is, no doubt, better than the others of its kind, more rational 
and more interesting, mainly because the author, when he took the Amadis as his 
model, had a clearer perception of its excellences than his brethren; but being better 
than its contemporaries does not necessarily imply being “ very good,” as Cervantes 
called it. It was for a long time believed to be of Portuguese origin, as Cervantes 
described it, though a French translation of 1553, and an Italian of 1555, both claiming 
to be from the Castilian, were the oldest foi-ms in which it was known; and Francisco 
Moraes, who, in 1567, produced a Portuguese version confessedly from the French, was 
confidently declared to be the author. Southey in this, as in the Amadis case, took up 
the Portuguese claim warmly, pointing out that no Spanish original was forthcoming, 
and arguing that Castilian was used to include all the languages of the Peninsula, that 
Moraes, in pretending to translate from the French, was only following in the footsteps 
of the older chivalry romance writers, and that the French and Italian versions might 
have been made from his manuscript. This is rather the argument of an advocate than 
of a critic; the question, however, has been since set at rest by the production of the 
desired Spanish original, printed in two volumes folio at Toledo in 1547 and 1548, which 
gives in an acrostic the name of the author, Luis Hurtado, a well-known man of letters 
of the day. To Vincente Salva belongs the honor of having established his country’s 
title to the book, but neither he nor Don Pascual de Gayagnos seems to have been aware 
that his copy was not unique. There is another in the Grenville Library in the British 
Museum, with, moreover, a MS. note, of what date it does not appear, pointing out that 
the existence of such an edition disposes of Southey’s theory as to the authorship of 
Moraes. There is an English translation by Anthony Muuday (1616) with the charac- 
teristic title. The no less rare then excellent and stately history of the famous and 
fortunate PHnce Palmerin of England, and Prince Florian du Desart his brother, 
wherein gentlemen may find choise of sweet inventions, and gentlewomen be satisfied 
in courtly expectations. 

The independent romances extended over a longer period than the 
Amadises and Palmerins, and continued to appear at intervals, until the 
publication of " Don Quixote,” as will be seen by the following list. 


APPENDIX II. 


537 


Tirant lo Blanch. Libre appellat , dirigido por mossen loanot 

Martorell., caviller^ al Serenissim princep Don Fernando de Portugal. 
Valencia, 1490. 

The volume in Don Quixote’s library, praised, seriously or ironically, by Cervantes, 
was the Castilian version, a poor abridgment, according to Gayangos, of the above, 
printed at Valladolid in 1511. Of the original Valencian it is commonly said that only 
three copies, one of which is in the British Museum, are in existence, but Gallardo in the 
Ensayo speaks of a fourth in the library of Don Jose de Salamanca, which is probably 
the copy mentioned in the supplement to BruneVa Manual as having been once in the 
Royal Library at Lisbon; of a second edition, printed at Barcelona in 1497, only one 
copy, that mentioned by Gallardo, seems to be known. It is described at the end as 
having been “ traduit de Angles eu lengua Portuguesa e apres en volgar lengua Valen- 
ciana por lo magnitich e virtiios caviller mossen loanot Martorell,” who wrote three 
parts, to which a fourth was added by the magnitich caviller mossen Johan de Galba, at 
the request of Dona Isabel de Loris. The suggestion of an English original is of 
course only the romance writers’ usual pretence, and in all probability the story of the 
Portuguese version is nothing more. The book appears to have been written about 
1460, and its author to have been familiar with the Arthur legend and the Amadis. 
Opinions differ as to the general merits of Tirant lo Blanch, but it has at least the 
merit, a rare one in chivalry romance, of treating its readers as rational beings; and for 
English readers the early part has an interest as dealing with adventures on English 
ground, and with the venerable story of Guy of Warwick. 

Oliveros de Castilla. Ilistoria de los nobles cavalleros y Artus de 

Algarve. Burgos, 1499. 

Said in some editions to be the work of Pedro de la Floresta, or, according to another 
account, to have been translated from the Latin into French and thence into Spanish by 
Philip Camus. It is more probable that it was originally written in Spanish, and like 
several other Spanish romances, translated into French by Camus. There were other 
editions at Valladolid 1501, Valencia 1505, Seville 1507 and 1510. It is one of the two or 
three books of the kind that have survived the onslaught of Cervantes, and have been 
reprinted occasionally up. to the present day. 

Cifar. Cronica del muy esforcado Caballero , nuevamerte impressa. 

Seville, 1512. 

The only copy known is in the Bibliothfeque Nationale, Paris. 

Floriseo. Libro de , que por otro nombre es llamado el caballero del 

Desierto. Valencia, 1516. 

By Fernando Bernal. The Colombina Library catalogue at Seville, and Nicolas 
Antonio (who gives 1517 as the date), seem to be the only authorities for the existence 
of this romance. It is probably identical with Poliaman Floriaio, Valencia 1527, by 
the same author and with very nearly the same title. 

Arderique. Libro del esfort^ado caballero . Salamanca, 1517. 

Clarian de Landanis. Libro primero del esfor(^ado caballero . 

Toledo, 1518. 

A second part appeared under the title of Floramante de Colonia, and a fourth under 
that of Lidaman do Ganail. 

Claribalte. Libro del muy esforqado caballero . Valencia, 1519. 

By Gonzalo Fernandea de Oviedo. 

Clarimundo. Primer a parte da Cronica do Emperador , donde os 

Reyes de Portugal descendem. Coimbra, 1520. 

This, though Portuguese, is entitled by the popularity it enjoyed throughout tha 
Peninsula to a place among the Spanish romances. The author was the Livy of Port- 
ugal, as he is sometimes called, JoSo de Barros, who wrote the history of the Portu- 
guese in the East. 


538 


VON QUIXOTE. 


Lepolemo. Cronica de , llamado el cahallero de la hijo del 

emperador de Alemania., compuesta en Arabigo y trasladada en Caste- 
llano por Alonso de Salazar. Valencia, 1521. 

Gayangos gives 1543 as the date of the earliest edition of which he had any certain 
knowledge, and speaks of the book as by an unknown author. Ticknor gives the same 
date and says the author was Pedro de Luxan, an assumption founded on the fact that 
Luxan in 1563 wrote a second part called Leandro el Bel. The above edition is 
described in the catalogue of the Colombina Library at Seville, and Mr. Quaritch of 
Piccadilly had, not long since, a copy of it, with, however, the title-page unfortunately 
in MS. only. According to it there can be no doubt that the author was Alonso de 
Salazar. It seems probable that there was another edition of Valencia, 1.525; and one 
of 1534, the existence of which Gayangos doubted, was in the Heber library. I have 
followed his description of the book in Note 3, page 33, chap. vi. vol. i. The reader 
will remember that under its second title of Knight of the Cross it was condemned by 
the curate, not altogether deservedly, Gayangos and Ticknor seem to think. 

Reymundo de Grecia. Historia del esf or <^ado y muy Valero so . Sala- 

manca, 1524. 

By Fernando Bernal; a continuation of Florisco. 

Lidaman de Ganail. Quarta pa'rte de Clarian^ llamada cronica de . 

Toledo, 1528. 

A continuation of Clarian de Landanis. 

Florindo. Libro del noble y muy esforgado caballero . Zaragoza, 

1530. 

Attributed by Gayangos to Fernando Basurto, an Aragonese. 

Felixmagno. Los quatro libros del valerosisimo caballero . Barce- 

lona, 1531. 

Florambel de Lucea. Historia del valiente cavallero . Valladolid, 

1532. 

The only complete copy, containing all five parts, known to exist, seems to be that 
which was in the Salva collection. Gayangos only knew of two parts, the fourth and 
fifth, of this “ rarisimo libro,” as he calls it, which are in the Imperial Library at 
Vienna, and two of another edition of 1548, in Sir Thomas Phillips’s library. 

Lidamor de Escocia. Historia del valeroso cavallero . Salamanca, 

1534. 

By Juan de Cordova. 

Lucidante de Tracia. Cronica del valeroso caballero Don . Sala- 

manca, 1534. 

Mentioned in the catalogue of the Colombina Library at Seville, but no copy is known 
to exist. * 

Philesbian de Candaria. Libro primero del noble y esforcado cavallero 
. ? 1542. 

The only copy known, an imperfect one, was in Sir Thomas Phillips’s library. 

Florando de Inglaterra. Cronica del valiente y esfort^ado principe . 

Lisboa, 1543. 

Cirongilio de Tracia. Los quatro libros del valeroso caballero . 

Seville, 1545. 

By Bernardo de Vargas; one of the books produced by the landlord in chap, xxxii. 

X* 


APPENDIX II, 


539 


Dristalian de Espaha. Hystoria de los invUos y magnanimos Caballeros 

principe del Trapisonda^ y del infante Luzescanio su hermano. 

Valladolid, 1545. 

Belia^iis de Grecia, Historia del valeroso y invencihle prindpe,, Don 
. Burgos, 1547. 

By Jeronimo Fernandez, a Madrid advocate. There is an English translation of 
which an edition in chap-book form was current in the last century. 

Floramante de Colonia. Segunda parte del esfor^ado cahallero Clarian 

su Mjo . Seville, 1550. 

A continuation of Clarian de Landanis. 

Felixmarte de Hircania. Primer a paHe de la grande historia del muy 
magnanimo y esfor^ado principe . Valladolid, 1556. 

By Melchor Ortega. This romance is chiefly remarkable for having been believed by 
the landlord in chap xxxiil., and read through by Dr. Johnson, a feat probably not 
achieved since the end of the sixteenth century. 

Caballero del Feho. Espejo de principes y cahalleros en el qual se cuentan 

los immortales hedhos del y de su hermano Rosicler. Zaragoza, 

1562. 

This, the first part, was by Diego Ortunez de Calahorra; a second part by Pedro de 
la Sierra appeared in 1580 at Alcala, and a third and fourth by Marcos Martinez at the 
same place in 1589. Clemencin calls it one of the most tedious and tiresome books of its 
kind, a description in which Don Pascual de Gayangos concurs. Feliciano de Silva 
seems to have been the model chosen by the authors, and the popularity they achieved 
was at least equal to his. It is often confounded with the Espejo de cavalleriaa, which 
belongs to the Charlemagne series. 

Leandro el Bel, Libro segundo del esfor^ado caballero de la Cruz,, Le~ 
polemo. Toledo, 1563. 

By Pedro de Luxan, written as a second part to Lepolemo above mentioned. 

Olivante de Laura. Historia del invencible caballero Don , Principe 

de Macedonia. Barcelona, 1564. 

By Antonio de Torquemada; one of the books most emphatically condemned by the 
curate. 

Feho el Troyano. Primer a paHe del dechado y remate de grandes haza- 

nos donde se cuentan los hechos del caballero del . Barcelona, 

1576. 

By Stevan Corbera of Barcelona. 

Policisne de Boecia. Historia famosa del principe Don . Valladolid, 

1602. 

By Juan de Silva. 

"Policisne de Boecia” was the last, or perhaps it would be more 
correct to say the last but one, of the Romances of Chivalry ; for it was 
the romance of Cervantes that three years later closed the list. No one 
was found hardy enough after that to face the ridicule that inevitably 
awaited the romance writer who ventured to take the field against Don 
Quixote and Sancho Panza ; and not only were no more chivalry romances 
written, but the booksellers ceased almost immediately to reprint the old 
favorites, the exception that proves the rule being the * Caballero del 


540 


DON QUIXOTE. 


Febo,” of which the first part was reprinted in 1617, and the third and 
fourth in 1623. Books like the *' History of Charlemagne and the Twelve 
Beers,” or “ Oliveros de Castilla,” do not count, for had all romances of 
chivalry been like them, *'Don Quixote” would never have been written. 
Cervantes, in fact, had done, single-handed, what for half a century the 
Church with all its power had been striving in vain to do. Well might he 
say he was proud of being the first who had ever fully enjoyed the fruit 
of his writings ; never before or since did a book with a purpose so com- 
pletely attain its object. The character of the nuisance he abated must 
be to a considerable extent taken on trust and at second hand by the 
reader, but the foregoing list will enable him in some measure to judge 
of its magnitude. It will be seen that the production of romances of 
chivalry was most active in the middle of the century, but there was no 
real falling off, for if the new romances were fewer in number, reprints 
of the old ones continued to issue from the press up to the very last. 
There is no reason to suppose that the passion for chivalry romances was 
languishing, or would have died a natural death without any impulse from 
the pen of Cervantes. The interesting diary of a Portuguese gentleman 
at Valladolid in the spring of 1605, lately discovered by Don Pascual de 
Gayangos, affords ample proof that this literature never had a stronger 
hold upon men’s minds than at the very moment when the ridicule of 
Cervantes was about to burst upon it. Long as the list may seem, it is, 
doubtless, a very incomplete one. When we see how many romances 
there are the existence of which is only known to us by accident, of which 
only a copy, or one or two copies, have by some chance been preserved, 
we may fairly conclude that bibliographers have by no means accounted 
for the whole of the romances of chivalry. The life of books was a pre- 
carious one in Spain; there were few libraries to offer them an asylum, 
and they had, most of them, enemies more destructive than any of those 
enumerated by Mr. Blades. The scene described by Cervantes in Chap- 
ter vi. of the First Part is no imaginary one, we may rely on it. Autos 
de f6 of that sort were most likely every-day occurrences, from the Bi- 
dassoa to the Straits of Gibraltar. A pious widow, for example, finding 
herself mistress of the books to which in her husband’s lifetime she 
bore no great good-will, would not prove very obstinate when the village 
curate pressed it upon her as a good work and a service to the Church to 
put these agents of the flesh and the devil out of the way of doing more 
mischief. This is, doubtless, the explanation of that extraordinary pre- 
dominance of devotional literature in the stock of every Spanish dealer 
in old books ; a phenomenon which must have struck everybody who has 
ever tried book-hunting in Madrid, Seville, or Saragossa. There are 
long rows of old theology and sermons, and lives and miracles of Saints, 
but of the contemporary novels and romances, the story, jest and ballad 
books, there is not so much as a tattered copy to show that such things 
ever were. It is impossible but that the ranks of the chivalry romances 
must have been thinned by the operation of this cause, and that many a 
one must have gone the way of the book that Cervantes tells us in his 
day recorded the deeds of Count Tomillas. 

The list might easily have been made longer by the addition of romances 
hardly less notable than those mentioned ; such, for instance, as that of 
" The Fair Magalona and Pierre of Provence,” several times referred to 
by Cervantes, " Abindarraez and Xarifa,” also quoted by him, " Leriano 


APPENDIX II, 


641 


and Laureola,” better known as the " Carcel de Amor,” one of the earliest 
to appear in print, "Flores and Blancaflor,” " Partinoples,” the Spanish 
version of the old French story of Parthenopex of Blois, " Parismus,” 
" Melusina,” " Tungano,” " Clamades,” " Aurelio and Isabella,” and a score 
of others. But these, though of the same family, are not strictly ro- 
m.ances of chivalry. In them, the chivalry element is an accident rather 
than a characteristic ; they do not belong to the class, nor are they speci- 
mens of the literature that supplied Cervantes with the motive for the 
burlesque of " Don Quixote,” and they would, consequently, be out of 
place here. 


542 


DON QUIXOTE, 


III. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF "DON QUIXOTE.” 

A COMPLETE bibliography of " Don Quixote,” giving a full account of 
every edition, translation, and edition of each translation, and of every 
essay, criticism, tractate or treatise dealing with the work, would require 
a good-sized volume to itself. The following does not pretend to be any- 
thing more than such a list as will put the history of the book before the 
reader, and enable him to judge of the relative importance of the various 
editions and translations. In the frontispiece to his facsimile repro- 
duction of the editio princeps. Colonel Lopez Fabra gives a list of four- 
teen languages into which the novel has been translated. I have been 
unable to discover any others, but the fourteen he enumerates are ac- 
counted for in the following list. I should have found it a difficult matter, 
if not impossible, to complete it by details of the Polish, Bohemian, 
Servian and Hungarian versions, but for the kindness of Mr. W. R. Mor- 
fill, Mr. A. L. Hardy, Mr. A. J. Patterson, and Messrs. Triibner & Co., 
and the ungrudging help they afforded me. For the list of the editions 
of the curious old Dutch translation of Lambert van den Bosch, now 
very rare, I am indebted to the kindness of Mr. J. L. Beyers of Utrecht. 


EDITIONS OF THE ORIGINAL. 

FIRST PART. 

1 . El Ingenioso \ Hidalgo Don Qui j xote de la Mancha^ | Compuesto por 
Miguel de Ceruantes | Saavedra Dirigido al Duque de Beiar,, | 
Marques de Gihraleon,, Conde de Benalca^ar,, y Bena \ res,, Viz- 
conde de la Puehla de Alcozer,, Senor de | las villas de Capilla,, 
Curiel^ y ] Burguillos. \ 

Ano 1605 I con privilegio, | en Madrid, por Juan de la Cuesta | 
Vendese en casa de Francisco de Robles, librero del Rey, nro 
Senor. — 

(In the centre ia the device which is produced in facsimile in the second volume of 
this translation.) 

The volume is a stout 4to of 664 pp., of which 632 are taken up with the text. The 
leaves only are numbered as is usual in Spanish books of the period. The “ Privilegio *’ 
is dated September 26, 1604, the list of errata. December 1, 1604, and the “Tasa,” De- 
cember 20, 1604. 


2. El Ingenioso,, etc. 

Same title, except that “ Benalca^ar ” is misprinted “ Barcelona,” and ” Burguillos ’* 
” Burgillos,” and that after ” Privilegio ” follow the words, de Castilla, Aragon y 
Portugal.” In addition to the privilegio of September 26, 1604, there is the new one for 
Portugal, in Portuguese, and dated February 9, 1605. The variations in the body of the 
book have been referred to in the notes passim, e.g. chaps, xxiii., xxv. and xxx. Pt. I., 
and iv. and xxvii. Pt. II. r . , 

It is strange that (the fact of there being two Madrid editions of 1605 once ascertained) 
there should have been auy uncertainty as to which of the two was the first, for the 


APPENDIX II L 


543 


additional words on the title-page and the new privilegio with the date of February 9, 
1605, tell their own tale sufficiently plainly, and show that the raison d’etre of the volume 
so distinguished was the necessity for securing the copyright in Aragon and Portugal, 
about which the proprietor had not troubled himself before. Nevertheless the second 
has been repeatedly mistaken for the first. Bowie, for instance, describes it as the first, 
BO does Navarrete in his bibliography, Ticknor makes the same mistake, and even 
Gallardo seems uncertain on the point. The doscription in the catalogue of the Gren- 
ville Library, 1842, is correct. Hartzenbusch was the first to notice the curious differ- 
ences in the text. 


3. El Ingenioso^ etc. Em Lisboa. Impresso com lisen^a do Santo 

Officio por Jorge Rodriguez. Anno de 1605. 4to. double columns, 
460 pp. 

“ Aprobacion ” and license dated Lisbon, February 26 and March 1, 1605. * 

4. El Ingenioso^ etc. Con licencia de la S. Inquisicion, en Lisboa, im- 

presso por Pedro Crasbeeck, ano mdcv. 8vo. 916 pp. Licensed, 
March 27 and 29. 

These two Lisbon editions were, of course, unauthorized, and printed from La Cuesta’s 
first edition. His second no doubt preceded them, but by very little, and Robles proba- 
bly failed to secure much of his royalties in Portugal. They are very rare, but except 
as reproductions of the first edition have no other value. 


5. El Ingenioso^ etc. Impresso con licencia en Valencia, en casa de 
Pedro Patricio Mey, 1605. Small 8vo. 16 prel. leaves, 768 pp. of 
text. 

The “ aprobacion ” of Luis Pellicer is dated July 18, 1605. The book is printed from 
the text of La Cuesta’s second edition, but has a few corrections, some of which were 
adopted in the 1608 edition of Madrid. The Mey press at Valencia was one of the best, 
if not the beet, in Spain at the time, and this edition is a good specimen of its work. It 
is a charming little book to look at, and a much more careful piece of printing than its 
predecessors. It was the text from which the Brussels and Antwerp editions were 
printed, though they, in course of time, incorporated the corrections inserted in La 
Cuesta’s third edition of 1608. 

Salva y Mallen asserts that there were two Valencia editions from the Mey press in 
1605. But the differences on which he relies are only misprints and pagination errors 
that in some instances have been corrected as the sheets were passing through the press, 
a very common source of variation in old books, as most bookworms know. Probably 
no two copies, for instance, of the first edition of “Paradise Lost,” or of the 1625 edi- 
tion of Bacon’s “ Essays ” are exactly alike. All seventeenth-century editions of “ Don 
Quixote ” are more or less rare, but I am inclined to think the rarest of all are the two 
Valencia editions of 1605 and 1616. 


6. El Ingenioso^ etc. En Bruselas por Roger Velpius. Ano 1607. 
8vo. 620 pp. 

Contains a few corrections, and an attempt to reduce the'confusion about the loss of 
Dapple. 


7. El Ingenioso^ etc. En Madrid, por Juan de la Cuesta. Ano 1608. 
4to. 578 pp. 

Commonly called the third edition, and the most prized of all on the supposition that 
Cervantes supplied or authorized the corrections of the text it contains, for which there 
is no ground whatever save that he was probably in Madrid when it appeared. But it is 
plain that he was not even aware of any such corrections having been made. No partic- 
ular sanctity, therefore, attaches to them, and they must stand or fall on their own 
merits like those by any other printer. Some deserve the name, but some of the altera- 
tions are by no means improvements, as for example the lines wantonly inserted in 
chap. 1. The 1608 edition has no right to the position that has been claimed for it 


544 


DON QUIXOTE. 


8. El Ingenioso., etc. En Milan, por heredero de Pedromartir Locarni 

y Juan Bautista Bidello. Ano 1610. Con licencia de superiores y 
privilegio. 8vo. 736 pp. 

I'here was a considerable Spanish population in North Italy in the reign of Philip III. ; 
hence this edition. It is not, however, of any independent value as regards correctness 
of text. 

9. El Ingenioso^ etc. En Brucelas por Roger Velpius y Huberto 

Antonio. Impressores de sus Altezas. Ano 1611. 8vo. 604 pp. 

A new edition of No. 6, with some of the corrections of the 1608 edition and a few 
original ones. 

10. El Ingenioso., etc. En Barcelona, en casa de Bautista Sorita, 1617. 
8vo. 768 pp. 

An edition of the Second Part was published at Barcelona the same year, which has 
led some bibliographers to amalgamate the two and speak of them as the first complete 
edition. But they were independent volumes by different publishers. 


11. Primera parte del ingenioso^ etc. For Huberto Antonio. Brucelas, 
1617. Small 8vo. 

This edition is apparently very rare. Salva y Mallen, the only bibliographer who men. 
tions it, only knew of its existence by a title-page placed in front of an imperfect copy 
of the 1607 Brussels edition; but Mr. Quaritch of Piccadilly had a perfect copy a few 
years ago. As Antonio, who succeeded Velpius, published an edition of the Second 
Fart in 1616, he would very naturally bring out a new one of the first to match it the 
next year. 

• SECOND PART. 

1. Segunda Parte | del Ingenioso | Cavallero Don | Quijote de la 

I Mancha | Por Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.^ autor de su 
primera parte. | Dirigida d D. Pedro Fernandez de Castro Conde 
de Le [ mos^ etc. 

Ano 1615. Con Privilegio | en Madrid, por Juan de la Cuesta. 
4to. 584 pp. 

The title-page bears the same device as the First. It will be seen that Cervantes has 
substituted “ cavallero ” for “ hidalgo ” in the title, a change which some critics endeavor 
to account for by referring to the remarks about hidalgos and caballeros in chapter ii. 
Cleraencin, however, thinks it was a mere oversight, and it is more probable that he is 
right. The volume seems to have been nearly a year going through the press. The in- 
teresting “aprobacion” by the licentiate Marquez Torres is dated February 27, 1615, 
that by Valdevielso, March 17, the Privilegio, March 30, the Dedication to the Conde de 
Leraos on the last day of October, and the final aprobacion on November 5, so that prob- 
ably the book was not published till the very end of the year or the beginning of 1616. 
It was not, however, for that reason the better cared for either by author or printer; and 
Cervantes had something else to think of at the time; he was busy getting his “ Come- 
dies ” printed. 

2. Segunda Parte., etc. En Valencia, en casa de Pedro Patricio Mey. 

Ano 1616. 8vo. 

“Aprobacion” dated January 27, 1616, license to print, May 27. Salva y Mallen 
thinks the Brussels edition was first in the field. 

3. Segunda Parte., etc. En Bruselas, por Huberto Antonio, impresor 

jurado. Ano 1616. 8vo. 

Privilegio dated February 4. 


APPENDIX III. 


545 


4. Segunda Parity etc. En Lisboa, por Jorge Rodriguez. Ano 1617. 

4 to. 

Aprobacion, etc. September 12, 22, and 25, 1616, and taea, January 17, 1617. 

5. Segunda Parity etc. En Barcelona en casa de Sebastian Matherad. 

Ano 1617. 8vo. 

Aprobacion dated January 27, 1617. 

COMPLETE WORK. 

1. Primera y segunda parte del Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Imprenta de 

Francisco Martinez. Madrid, 1637. 2 vols. 4to. 

The license to print was granted in October 1634, and the second volume is dated 1636. 
This, the first edition of the book as a whole, is a poor production, and the same may 
be said of all the Madrid editions up to that of 1771. They are, for the most p?rt, badly 
printed in double columns and on vile paper, and are, it is needless to say, of no authority 
whatever. Compared with them, the Brussels and Antwerp editions are Aldines and 
Elzevirs. 

2. Primera y segunda parte^ eiQ, En la Imprenta Real. Madrid, 1647. 

2 vols. 4to. 

A reprint of the above. 

3. Primera y segunda (sic) del^ etc. Melcbor Sanchez. Madrid, 1655. 

4to. 

4. Parte primera y segunda del^ etc. En la Imprenta Real, por Mateo 

Fernandez. Madrid, 1662. 1 vol. 4to. 

Errata and tasa, dated 1662, but license, 1653. 

5. Vida y hechos del Ingenioso cavallero^ etc. J. Mommarte. Brussels, 

1662. 2 vols. 8vo. 

Privilegio granted September 4, 1660. 

The blundering alteration of the title into Vida y hechos del was adopted by almost 
all subsequent publishers, until the Spanish Royal Academy produced its edition in 1780. 
This edition is further distinguished as being the first to appear with plates. They are 
chiefly remarkable for being as un-Spanish as possible in every particular, but their 
grotesque absurdity will always make them precious to every lover of old books. They 
were reproduced in all the Flemish editions, and in many of the French translations. 

6. Parte primera y segunda del., En la Imprenta Real. Madrid, 

1668. 1 vol. 4to. 

The Second Part bears date 1662, probably a misprint. 

7. Vida y hechos del ingenioso cavallero., etc. Pedro de la Calle. 

Bruselas, 1671. 2 vols. 8vo. 

A reprint by agreement of Mommarte’s of 1662, with the same plates. 

8. Vida y hechos del., etc. En casa de Geronimo y Juan Bautista Ver» 

dussen. Amberes, 1673. 2 vols. 8vo. 

Another re-issue of Mommarte’s Brussels edition with the same plates. 

9. Vida y hechos del., etc. Por Andres Garcia de la Iglesia. Madrid, 

1674. 2 vols. 4to. 

With plates copied from Mommarte’s 1662 edition. 

Vol. II. — 35 


546 


DON QUIXOTE, 


10. Vida y hechos del^ etc. For Henrico y Cornelio Verdussen. Ara- 

beres, 1697. 2 vols. 8vo. 

A new edition of the former of 1673, with the same plates. The Valencia editions 
excepted, these Antwerp editions of the Verdussens are, perhaps, on the whole, the 
neatest and the best printed of the early editions of Don Quixote; and, without being 
free from misprints, are fairly accurate. 

11. Vida y hechos del,^ etc. London, 1701. 2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

This, and another London edition of the same form, dated 1706, are mentioned by 
Navarrete, but are very doubtful. 

12. Vida y hechos del^ etc. Martin Gelabert. Barcelona, 1704. 2 vols. 

4to. 

13. Vida y hechos del^ etc. Antonio Gonzalez de Reyes. Madrid, 1706. 

2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

A reprint of the Madrid edition of 1674. 

14. Vida y hechos del,, etc. A costa de Francisco Lasso. Madrid, 1714. 

2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

A repetition of the preceding. 

15. Vida y hechos del ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Henrico y Cornelio Ver- 

dussen. Amberes, 1719. 2 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

Privilege granted by Charles VI. the Pretender to the Spanish crown. 

16. Vida y hechos del,, etc. A costa de la Hermandad de S. Gerdnimo. 

Madrid, 1723. 2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

A repetition of the preceding. 

17. Vida y hechos del,, etc. Viuda de Bias de Villanueva. Madrid, 1730. 

2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

Same plates. Prefixed is a claptrap dedication from Cid Hamet Benengeli to Don 
Quixote which is reproduced in most of the Madrid trade editions. 

18. Vida y hechos del,, etc. Antonio Sanz. Madrid, 1735. 2 vols. 4to. 

Besides repeating the above dedication, this gives additional verses by the academi- 
cians of Argamasilla, while it omits the verses of Cervantes at the beginning. 

19. Vida y hechos del,, etc. J. and P. Bonnardel. Lyons, 1736. 2 vols. 

8vo. Plates. 

Follows the Antwerp editions, the plates of which are copied. 

20. Vida y hechos del ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. J. and R. Tonson. Lon- 

don, 1738. 4 vols. large 4to. Plates. 

The edition commonly called Lord Carteret’s, and the first that aimed at treating 
“ Don Quixote ” as a classic and not as a mere popular book of drolleries. Prefixed is 
the life by Mayans y 8iscar, the first attempt at a life of Cervantes; and it contains also 
the first attempt at a critical text, in which some judicious emendations are made. The 
printing is admirable, and the plates excellent us engravings, though as iliustrations they 
are not very much more meritorious than those of the Brussels and Antwerp editions. 

21. Vida y hechos del ingenioso cavallero,, etc. J. de San Martin. Ma* 

drid, 1741. 2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

Follows the Madrid editions of 1730 and 1735. 


APPENDIX III, 


54 ? 


22. Vida y heehos del ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. P. Gosse and A. Moetjens. 

The Hague, 1744. 4 vols. 12mo. Plates. 

The plates are after CGypel’s designs. This beautiful little edition was the first fruit 
of Tonson’s London edition, the text of which it follows. It also gives the life by 
Mayans y Siscar. 

23. Vida y heehos del^ etc. Juan de San Martin. Madrid, 1750. 2 vols. 

4to. 

This is also based on the London edition, and contains the life. 

24. Vida y heehos del ingenioso eavallero^ etc. A co*sta de Pedro Alonso 

de Padilla. Madrid, 1750. 2 vols. 4to. 

25. Ftc^a y heehos del,, etc. A costa de Pedro Alonso de Padilla. Madrid, 

1751. 2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

This too contains the life. 


26. Vida y heehos del,, etc. Juan Jolis. Barcelona, 1755. 4 vols. 8vo. 

27. Vida y heehos del ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Arkstee and Merkus. 

Amsterdam and Leipzig, 1755. 4 vols. 12mo. Plates. 

A reprint of the Hague edition, and scarcely less beautiful. 

28. Vida y heehos del,, etc. Tarragona, 1757. 4 vols. 8vo. 

Mentioned by Navarrete, on the faith of a London catalogue. 

29. Vida y heehos del ingenioso eavallero,, etc. Andr6s Ramires. Ma- 

drid, 1764. 2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

Seems to be a repetition of the editions of 1750 and 1751. 

30. Vida y heehos del,, etc. Manuel Martin. Madrid, 1765. 4 vols. 

small 8 VO. 

With barbarous woodcuts like those upon halfpenny ballads. There was another 
edition the same . year by Manuel Martin. 

31. Vida y heehos del,, eic. Joaquin de Ibarra. Madrid, 1771. 4 vols. 

small 8vo. Plates. 

This was the first attempt in Spain to produce “ Don Quixote ” in comely shape, with 
good print and well-executed plates. 

32. Vida y heehos del,, etc. Antonio del Sancha. Madrid, 1777. 4 vols. 

12mo. Plates. 

Follows to some extent the example set by the preceding. 

33. El Ingenioso hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha. Joaquin de Ibarra. 

Madrid, 1780. 4 vols. large 4to. Plates. 

This is the splendid edition of the Spanish Royal Academy, a book that may be 
regarded as a national monument. The life of Cervantes by Vicente de los Rios, though 
not a critical or judicious production, is an improvement on that of Mayans v Siscar, and 
the attempt to settle the text definitely is meritorious ; hut unfortunately rather too much 
faith is placed in the authority of the corrections of the 160S edition. It will be observed 
that the editors had the good taste to revert to the original title. 


648 


VON QUIXOTE. 


34. Historia del famoso cavallero^ etc. E. Easton, London and Salis-* 

bury, 1781. 6 vols. 4to; but commonly bound in 3 vols., the last 

being filled with the notes. 

This remarkable edition, the work of an English country clergyman, the Rev. John 
Bowie of Idmestone, was a literary feat and an achievement in scholarship of no small 
magnitude. Bowie wisely abstained from attempting any extensive rectification of the 
text, but the mass of notes with which he illustrated it bears ample testimony to his 
learning and zeal. The actual value of the notes to the reader as illustrations or “ Don 
Quixote” is, however, small in comparison with their bulk; the true service which 
Bowie rendered by his edition was in the example he set and in the foundation he laid 
down for after commentators. His alteration of the title is indefensible. Probably he 
Intended a sort of imitation of the style of his favorite reading, the romances of chiv- 
alry; but in that case it would have been better to call it at once ” Cronica del muy 
esforzado cavallero.” In his letter to Percy, and in his original advertisement, he pro- 
posed “ valeroso cavallero.” 

35. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Joaquin de Ibarra. Madrid, 1782. 

4 vols. small 8vo. Plates. 

This is the Academy edition reduced in dimensions and brought within the reach of 
the general public. 

36. Vida y hechos del, etc. Manuel Martin. Madrid, 1782. 4 vols. 8vo. 

Plates. 


37. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. La Viuda de Ibarra. Madrid, 1787. 

6 vols. 16mo. Plates. 

The third Academy edition. 

38. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Imprenta real. Madrid, 1797. 6 vols. 

12mo. 

.An edition printed with special care as a specimen of typography. Plates adapted to 
it were afterwards published. 

39. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Gabriel de Sancha. Madrid, 1797-8. 

5 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

This is the valuable edition of Juan Antonio Pellicer, the first to deal with the re- 
quirements of the great majority of readers in a practical spirit, a task for which his 
knowledge of local traditions, popular sayings, customs, and folk-lore of every sort, 
specially fitted him. His notes are comparatively few and short, but measured by their 
value to the reader are second in importance only to Clemencin’s. 


40. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Gabriel de Sancba. Madrid, 1798-9, 

1800. 9 vols. 12mo. Plates. 

A new edition of the preceding with some slight alterations and improvements. 

41. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Sommer. Leipzig, 1800. 6 vols. 12mo. 

A reprint of Pellicer’s edition, with the Quixote dictionary of J. W. Beneke. 

42. Vida y hechos del, etc. Imprenta de Vega. Madrid, 1804. 6 vols, 

8vo. 

A mere trade edition, very poor in every way. 

43. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. J. Pinard. Bordeaux, 1804. 4 vols. 8vo. 

The Academy text with Pellicer’s notes. 


APPENDIX IIL 


549 


44. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. H. Frolich. Berlin, 1804. 6 vols. 8vo. 

A scholarly edition by Ludwig Ideler, based upon Pellicer’s, but with additions from 
Bowie and others. 

45. Historia del ingenioso^ etc. . . . Barcelona, 1808. 6 vols. 12mo. 

46. Vida y hechos del^ etc. Viuda de Barco Lopez. Madrid, 1808. 

4 vols. 8vo. 

47. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. . . . London, 1808. 4 vols. 12nio. 

Edited by the Rev. Felipe Fernandez, A.M. 

48. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Tournachon Melin. Lyons, 1810. 

4 vols. 12mo. 

49. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Bossange an4 Masson. Paris, 1814. 

7 vols. 12mo. 

The Academy text and Peliicer’s notes. 

50. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Lackington and Allen. London, 1814. 
Edited by the Rev. F. Fernandez, a reprint of the 1808 edition. 

51. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. P. Beaume. Bordeaux, 1815. 4 vols. 

12mo. 

52. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Sommer. Leipzig, 1818. 6 vols. small 

8vo. Plates. 

A reprint of the Leipzig edition of 1800. 

53. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Imprenta real. Madrid, 1819. 4 vols. 

8vo. Plates. 

Fourth edition of the Royai Academy “ Quixote.” To this Navarrete’s life of Cer- 
vantes makes a fifth vol. 

54. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Cormon and Blanc. Paris, 1825. 4 

vols. 12mo. 

55. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Madrid, 1826, 2 vols. 12mo. Plates. 

56. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Didot. Paris, 1827. 1 vol. 32mo. 

Plates. 

Miniature edition. 

57. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Cormon and Blanc. Paris, 1827. 6 vols. 

12mo. 

58. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. . . . Madrid, 1829. 

In ” Obras escogidas” in 11 vols. small 8vo. 

59. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Espinosa. Madrid, 1831. 4 vols. 16mo. 

Plates. 

60. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. . . . Saragossa, 1831. 3 vols. 12mo. 


550 


DON QUIXOTE, 


61. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Viuda y hs. Gorchs. Barcelona, 18S2. 

4 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

Reprint of the Academy edition of 1819. 

62. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Didot. Paris, 1832. 1 vol. 32mo. 

Plates. 

Reproduction of miniature edition of 1827. 

63. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. E. Aguado. Madrid, 1833-39. 6 vols. 

4to. 

“ Comentado por Diego Clemencin the most important perhaps of all the editions, 
except that of the Academy. Clemencin followed Pellicer’s example, but produced a 
commentary on a vastly larger scale, not contenting himself with explaining merely the 
obscure allusions and phrases, but setting to work as though resolved to make damson 
Carrasco’s remark, that “ there is nothing to puzzle over,” true to the very letter so far 
as his edition was concerned. There is, of course, a great deal of annotatiou that might 
very well have been spared, but the case is one to which the aphorism about gift-horses 
applies. Clemencin is doubtless diffuse, but he has done more towards the elucidation 
of Don Quixote than all the rest of the commentators and annotators together. His great 
fault is his hypercritical temper. His love and veneration for his author are genuine, 
but the carelessness with which Cervantes wrote irritated him, and he very often makes 
mountains of mole-hills, and goes out of his way to find fault. 

64. El Ingenioso hidalgo. Barcelona, 1835. 1 vol. 8vo. 

1st vol. of ” Coleccion de los Mayores Ingenios de Espana.” 

65. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Little and Brown. Boston (U. S.), 

1836. 1 vol. 8vo. Plates. [2d ed. 2 vols. 1837. Am. ed.'\ 

The Academy text, with emendations by Francis Sales. 

66. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Lefevre. Paris, 1838. 4 vols. 16mo. 

67. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Antonio Bergnes. Barcelona, 1839. 

2 vols. large 8vo. Plates. 

68. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Baudry. Paris, 1840. 1 vol. large 8vo. 

Edited by Ochoa. * 

69. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Charles Ingray. Paris, 1840. 1 vol. 

12mo. 

70. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Little and Brown. Boston (U. S.), 1842. 

1 vol. 12mo. 

3d edition of that of 1836. 

71. El Ingenioso hidalgo,, etc. Ignacio Cumplido. Mexico, 1842. 2 

vols. large 8vo. Plates. 

72. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Aribau. Madrid, 1846. 1 vol. large 8vo. 

1st vol. of the admirable “ Biblioteca de autores Espanoles,” containing besides 
Don Quixote ” the minor works (except the dramas) and the collected poems. 

73. El Ingenioso hidalgo, etc. Juan Oliveres. Barcelona, 1848. 2 

vols. 8 VO. 


APPENDIX IIP 


651 


74. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Gaspar y Roig. Madrid, 1850. 1 vol. 

large 8vo. 

75. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Paris, 1850. 2 vols. 8vo. 

76. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. D. Appleton & Co. New York, 1853. 

1 vol. 12mo. 

A reprint of the Paris edition by Ochoa, 1840. 

77. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Baudry. Paris, 1855. 1 vol. 8vo, 

78. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Mellado. Madrid, 1855. 2 vols. 8vo. 

79. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Gaspar y Roig. Madrid, 1855. 1 vol. 

8vo. 

80. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. D. Appleton & Co. New York, 1860. 

1 vol. 8vo. 


81. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Tomas Gorchs. Barcelona, 1862. 

2 vols. folio. 

A sumptuous and finely printed ddition de luxe. 

82. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Ribadeneyra. Argamasilla de Alba, 

1863. 4 vols. 12mo. 

Edited by the late Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch. A typographical gem and biblio- 
graphical curiosity, having been printed in the Casa de Medrano, close beside the cellar 
in which, according to the tradition of Argamasilla, Cervantes wrote the novel. It is a 
pity that its value as an edition is not equal to its beauty as a book. Hartzenbusch was 
the first to perceive the differences in text between the first and later editions, and that 
the corrections in the latter were not supplied by Cervantes. He would have rendered 
a service to literature if he had reproduced the text of the 1st edition on some such plan 
as that followed in the Cambridge Shakespeare, admitting only obvious and accepted 
emendations, and giving the more important of the others in notes; of which, after all, 
very few w'ould have been needed. But unfortunately, acting on a blind faith in the 
infallibility of Cervantes, and a theory that everything “unlike him” must needs be 
due to some blunder or conjecture of the printers, he has so tampered with the text as 
almost to neutralize the value of his editions to all readers except those sufficiently 
familiar with it to be able to check his vagaries. Many of his emendations are 
admirable, but many also are entirely uncalled for; often little irritating alterations for 
which it is difficult to see any reason except a restless desire to make a change of some 
sort; and sometimes not merely needless but downright mischievous. He was a man 
of genius, a poet, an accomplished scholar, and an acute critic, but he was sadly defi- 
cient in a sense of humor, without which it is impossible for the most highly gifted 
commentator or critic to “ keep touch ’’ with Cervantes. 

83. El Ingenioso hidalgo., etc. Ribadeneyra. Argamasilla de Alba, 

1863. 4 vols. royal 8vo. 

Vols. 3-6 of the fine edition of Cervantes’ complete works in 12 vols. (310 copies 
only printed), edited by Don Cayetano Rosell, the 4 containing Don Quixote being 
intrusted to Hartzenbusch. Text, with a few slight differences, the same as in the 
preceding. 

84. El Ingenioso hidalgo., etc. Imprenta nacional, Madrid, 1863. 3 vols 

imperial 8vo. Plates. 


552 


DON QUIXOTE. 


86. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc, Gaspar y Roig. Madrid, 1865. 1 voL 

large 8vo. Plates. 

These of Gaspar y Roig, though merely cheap popular editions and illustrated with 
clumsy reproductions of Tony Jobaunot’s cuts, are readable and useful, as they have 
a judicious text and selection of the notes of Pellicer, Clemeucin, and Hartzenbusch. 

86. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Barcelona, 1865-6. 2 vols. folio. With 

Gustave Dore’s illustrations. 

87. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Brockhaus. Leipzig, 1866. 2 vols. 8vo. 

A very neat, carefully printed, and convenient edition. 

88. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Madrid, 1868. 1 vol. 8vo. 

89. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. F. Lopez Fabra. Barcelona, 1871-4. 

2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

The first edition, 1605-1615, reproduced by phototypography. Hartzenbusch’s notes 
from a third volume. A splendid book, for which all lovers of Cervantes will thank 
Colonel Fabra. 

90. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Paris, 1873. 1 vol. 8vo. 

91. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Cadiz, 1877. 8vo. 

Issued to subscribers. To be completed in 5 vols. including the life of Cervantes by 
Don Ramon Leon Mainez. 

92. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Seville, 1879. 1 vol. 16nio. 

93. El Ingenioso hidalgo^ etc. Madrid, 1880. 2 vols. 16mo. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

ENGLISH. 

1. The I History | of | the Valorous | and Wittie | Knight- Errant [ 
Don Quixote \ of the Mancha. \ Translated out of the Spanish. 
London. | Printed by William Stansby for Ed. Blount and ] W. 
Barret. | 1612. Second Part, 1620. Small 4to. 

Translated by Thomas Shelton about 1608, as appears from the dedication. Under 
December 5, 1615, in the “ Stationers’ Register ” is entered, “The Second Parte of Don 
Quixote;” but this cannot be a version of Cervantes’ Second Part, which was not 
licensed to be printed until November 5, and, though dated 1615, could hardly have been 
published that year. I suspect the entry refers to a version of Avellaneda’s Second 
Part, which may have been withdrawn as soon as the book was discovered to be spuri- 
ous. In the Athenaeum (No. 2698, et seq.) there is an interesting discussion on Shelton’s 
translation, in which the existence of a separate First Part dated 1612 (a point disputed 
by some correspondents) is fully established, as also the fact, first discovered by the 
acumen and research of Mr. A. J. Duffield, that Shelton translated from the Brussels 
edition of 1607. It has been said that Shelton was not the translator of the Second Part, 
but there is no ground for the assertion except that there is a certain falling-off in spirit 
in the rendering. On the other hand, the style is the same, and the same mistranslations 
of certain words and phrases occur repeatedly. The assertion sometimes made that the 
Second Part was translated from the French is also groundless, as a comparison with 
Rosset’s version will show. Shelton’s was the first of all the translations of Don 
Quixote. It is a hasty and a careless production, sometimes barbarously literal, some- 
times very free, but always delightful as a specimen of quaint colloquial English. Other 
editions; 1652, folio; 1675, folio; 1706, 2 vols. 8vo, revised by J. Stevens; 1725, 4 vols. 
12mo; 1731, 4 vols. 12mo. 


APPENDIX III. 


553 


3. The History of the most renowned Don Quixote and Sancho Pancha^ 
now made English according to the humour of our modern lan^ 
guage. London, 1687. Folio. Plates. 

By John Phillips, Milton’s nephew. A piece of coarse, vulgar buffoonery, based on 
Shelton’s translation and the French of Filleau de Saint-Martin, and preserving scarcely 
a feature of the original. There was no other edition. 


3. The History of the renowned Don Quixote. Translated from the 
original by several hands and published by Peter Motteux. Lon- 
don, 1701. 4 vols. 12mo. Plates. 

The so-called Motteux’s version. There is some uncertainty about the date of the 
first edition, which, whatever the reason, seems to be rare. Watt (Bibliotheca Britan- 
nica) gives 1701 ; a bookseller’s catalogue before me, 1700; other authorities, 1706; others 
again, 1712, which is the date of the third edition, the earliest I have seen ; while Lowndes 
gives 1719. It must, however, have been between 1701 and 1706, for the first volume is 
dedicated to “ Henry Boyle, Chancellor of her Majesty’s Exchequer,” which post he 
held from 1701 to 1707, and the fourth to the “ Hon. Colonel Stanhope,” who returned 
from Spain at the end of 1705 with the rank of Brigadier-General. Its claim to have 
been translated from the original is more than doubtful. It is, at any rate, a very 
unfaithful translation, unfaithful to the letter, but still more to the spirit. There are 
several editions ; the fourth, in 1719, was revised by Ozell. That of Edinburgh, 1822, 
5 vols., was edited by Lockhart, with Pellicer’s notes transferred without acknowledg- 
ment. Since then three or four handsome editions have been published, e.g., that in 
4 vols. 8vo by Nimmo and Bain, and that by Paterson, Edinburgh, in 4 vols. large 8vo. 


4. The Life and Exploits of the Ingenious Gentleman., Don Quixote of 

La Mancha. Translated by Charles Jarvis, Esq. London, 1742. 

2 vols. 4to. Plates. 

Brunet gives the date 1738-42, as if there was an earlier issue of the first volume; but 
this cannot be correct. The translator was Charles Jervas, the portrait-painter, and 
friend of Pope and Swift, who died in 1739, and had the 1st vol. appeared in his lifetime 
he would not have allowed his name to be printed phonetically, according to the pro- 
nunciation of the day, on his title-page. The plates are those of the 1738 edition of the 
original published by Tonson, who was also the publisher of this. I’refixed is a transla- 
tion of the Life by Mayans y Siscar, and a supplementary preface on Chivalry Romance 
by Warburton, which is a curiosity of pretentious ignorance. For example, he tells 
the reader that Palmerin de Oliva in the history of Oliver, is the comrade and rival of 
Roland, and he connects Amadia of Gaul with the Carlovingian cycle! The second 
edition was in 1749,2 vols. 8vo; the third in 1756, 2 vols. 4to; the fourth in 1766, 4 vols. 
12mo. The modern ones are well-nigh countless. Among them may be mentioned the 
very handsome one of 1801 in 4 vols. royal 8vo, with Stothard’s plates; that of 1836 in 3 
vols. 8vo, with Tony Johannot’s illustrations, and Cassell’s edition with Gustave Dore's. 
Of the merits of Jervas’s version I have spoken at length in the introduction. It is an 
honest and faithful translation; its fault is that it is stiff and ponderous; which, hnw- 
ever, is in a great measure due to Jervas’s anxiety to avoid the flippant, would-be 
facetious, style of his predecessor, Motteux. 

5. The History and Adventures of Don Quixote. Translated from the 

Spanish by T. Smollett. London, 1755. 2 vols. 4to. 

This was a mere bookseller’s speculation. As a translation it has no value, being, 
indeed, little more than a rifacimento of Jervas’s, made without any regard to the orig- 
inal. The editions of it, however, are numerous. 

6. The History of the renowned Don Quixote of La Mancha. Trans- 

lated into English by George Kelly, Esq. ; with notes on the dilfi- 

cult passages. Printed for the Translator, London, 1769. 4 vols. 

12mo. 

A literary imposture of remarkable impudence. It is. In fact, simply Motteux’s 
translation, word for word, with a few artful transpositions here and there; and the 
better to mask his appropriation of Motteux’s text, the ” translator” has fllched bodily 
Jervas’s notes. 


554 


DON QUIXOTE, 


7. The History of Don Quixote. Translated from the Spanish by C. 

H. Wilmot. London, 1774. 2 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

Merely an abridged version, and apparently not from the original. 

8. The History of Don Quixote. Illustrated with engravings after R 

Smirke, R.A. 4 vols. 8vo. Printed by Bulraer, London, 1818. 

A patchwork version made out of previous translations by Miss Smirke to accom. 
pany her brother’s designs. The book, however, is a very handsome one, and prized 
by lovers of editions de luxe. 

9. The Ingenious Knight Don Quixote of La Mancha. A new transla- 

tion by Alexander J. Duffield, with some of the notes of the Rev. 

• J. Bowie, J. A. Pellicer, and Diego Clemencin. Kegan Paul, Lon- 
don, 1881. 

The work of an enthusiastic Cervantist, whose zeal and labor deserve to be honored 
by all lovers of Cervantes and Don Quixote. The verse has been very skilful!} trans- 
lated by Mr. J. Y. Gibson. 

To these may be added such reproductions of the story of Don Quixote as ; ifed 
Ward’s Life and Adventu,res of that renowned knight Don Quixote ; merrily translated 
into Iludibrastic verse. London, 1700. — The History of the ever renowned knight Don 
Quixote. London, 1700. — The much esteemed History of Don Quixote. London, 1716. 
— The most admirable and delightful History of the achievements of Don Quixote; 
done from the Spanish edition. London, 1721; chap-book abridgments; and: The 
Life and Exploits of Don Quixote de la Mancha, abridged. F. Newbery, London, 
1778. — Stories and Chapters from Don Quixote versified. London, 1830. — The His- 
tory of Don Quixote, with an account of his exploits, abridged from Smollett. Halifax, 
1839. — The Story of Don Quixote and his Squire Sancho Panea. London,1871.— 
The wonderful adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho t:*anza, abridged and adapted 
to youthful capacities, by Sir Marvellous Crackjoke. London, 1872. — The Adventures 
of Don Quixote, adapted for young readers. London, 1883. 


FRENCH. 

1. Le Valeureux Don Quixote de la Manche., ou I'histoire de ses grands 

exploicts d'armes., fideles amours.^ et adventures estranges. Traduit 

fid^lement de I’espagnol de M. de Cervantes, par C6sar Oudin, 

Secretaire Interpr^te de sa Majeste. Jean Fouet. Paris, 1616. 

1 vol. 8vo. 

This is, of course, the First Part only. A translation of the second is promised in 
the third edition (Paris, 1620), of which there are copies in the British Museum and 
Lambeth libraries. The privilege is dated March 17, 1614. Oudin was a teacher of 
Spanish, and this translation seems, from the notes, to have been, partly at least, in- 
tended for his pupils. It reads more like an exercise in which one language is turned 
into another by a beginner with the help of the dictionary, than a translation properly 
so-called. 

2. Histoire du redoubtable et ingenieux Chevalier Don Quixote. Tra- 

duite de I’espagnol par F. Rosset. Paris, 1618. 1 vol. 8vo. 

This is the Seeond Part only. There is a copy in the Lambeth Palace library. It 
was dedicated to Mdme. de Luysnes, and is referred to by Blount, the pubSisher, in his 
dedication of Shelton’s second part, published in 1620, an allusion which has led some 
persons to imagine that the English version was made from it. Rosset translated also 
several of the Spanish romances of chivalry. His translation is somewhat less bald 
than Gudin’s, with which it was joined and issued, Paris, 1633; Paris, 1639; Rouen, 1646; 
Paris, 1665; and in the present year a new edition of both in 6 vols. 16mo has appeared. 

3. Histoire de V admirable Don Quixotte de la Manche. Paris, 1677-8. 

4 vols. 12mo. 

Anonymous, but the work of the Sieur Filleau de Saint-Martin. He dedicated it to 
the Dauphin, and in the preface says he was moved to write it because the existing 


APPENDIX III. 


655 


tranelntlon, made fifty years previously, was in a style that was no longer in use. It is 
more readable than Oudin’s or Rosset’s, but very unfaithful. Filleau de Saint-Martin 
had no scruples about altering or oraittitig anything he did not like, or even adding 
touches of his own. It passed through numerous editions; a second in 1679; others in 
1681, and 1692. A third Paris edition appeared in 1695 in 5 vols. 12mo, the 5th voi. being 
a continuation of the adventures of Don Quixote, who is made to recover from his illness 
in chap. Ixxiv. The continuation, which is a sorry piece of work, was left unfinished, 
owing to Saint-Martin’s death the same year, and was completed by Robert Challes in 
1713. Very few of the many editions mention F. de Saint-Martin's name, and there has 
been consequently a good deal of confusion about the authorship. In Bassorapierre’s 
Li6ge and Frankfort editions the translator is said to have been Claude Lancelot of Port 
Royal; and Navarrete, in his list, inserts three of the editions as if they were distinct 
translations. 


4. Don Quichote de la Manche. Traduit de I’espagnol par Florian. 
6 vols. 12mo. Didot Aine, Paris, an VII. 17D9. 

An abridgment in which little or nothing of the spirit of the original is preserved, 
but which, from its style, has been exceedingly popular, not only in France, but in other 
countries. 


5. (Euvres completes de Cervantes. Traduites par H. Bouchon Du- 
bournial. 8 vols. 12mo. Plates. Paris, 1808. 

Comprising Don Quixote, the exemplary novels — to which “The Ill-advised Curi- 
osity ” is added — and Persiles and Sigismunda. “ Peu exacte et faiblement faite.” — 
Brunet. 


6. U Ingenieux chevalier Don Quichotte. Traduit de I’espagnol par De 

I’Aulnaye. 4 vols. 18mo. Woodcuts. Paris, 1821. 

“ Une des plus fiddles que nous ayons jusqu’4 present.” — Brunet. 

7. U Ingenieux chevalier Don Quichotte^ par I’Abbe Lejeune. 1 vol. 

8vo. Lehuby. Paris, 1824. 

An abridgment. 

8. U Inginieux Hidalgo Don Quichotte^ traduit et annote par Louis 

Viardot. Dubochet. Paris, 1836. 2 vols. 1. 8vo, illustrated by 

Tony Johannot. 

A translation executed with great literary skill, and a very agreeable one to read, but 
not always true to the letter or to the spirit of the original. 

9. U Admirable Don Quichotte de la Manche.^ traduction nouvelle par 

Damas Hinard. Charpentier. Paris, 1847. 2 vols. 8vo. 

This is not so elegant or agreeable a translation as Viardot’s, but it is, I think, a more 
scholarly piece of work. It is, however, much too free, and sometimes inaccurate. 

10. U Ingenieux chevalier Don Quichotte^ traduction nouvelle par M. 

Fume. Paris, 1858. 2 vols. 8vo. 

11. L' Ingenieux chevalier Don Quichotte,^ traduction nouvelle par R6- 

raond. Delarue. Paris, 1863. 2 vols. 12mo, with spirited wood- 

cuts by Telory. 

An abridgment, omitting, for example, the novel of “ The Ill-advised Curiosity,” 
the story of Ana Felix in the Second Part, and such other portions as could be best 
spared. For an abridgment it is a good one in every respect; far better than Florian’s, 


556 


DON QUIXOTE. 


12. UIngenieux Hidalgo Don Quichotte, traduction nouvelle de Lucien 
Biart (avec notice par Prosper M6rimee). Hetzel. Paris, 1878. 
4 vols. 12mo. 

An unpretending version, not without merit, but not distinguished by any shining 
ones. 'I'he uoetry, of which most other French translators are. content to give prose 
renderings, nas been admirably put into verse by the Comte de Gramont. 


GERMAN. 

1. Don Kichote de la Mantzscha^ das ist^ Juncker Harnisch aus Flecken- 

land.^ aus hispanischer Sprach in hochteutsche vhersetzt. Kothen, 

1621. 1 vol. 12mo. 

From the second title it appears that the translator was Pahsch Bastel von der Sohle. 
There were other editions : Hoffgeismar, 1648 ; Frankfort, 1648 ; Frankfort, 1669, The 
translation unfortunately only extends to twenty-two chapters, the remainder, promised 
by the translator, never having appeared. As a translation it is far better than Gudin’s, 
and more conscientious, if less spirited, than Shelton’s. The translator plumed himself 
especially upon presenting Spanish words and names in such a form as would make 
them easy to be pronounced correctly by German readers. 

2. Don Quixote von Manchu ; ahenteuerliche Geschichte. Basel und 

Frankfort, 1682. 2 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

A complete translation. Anonymous. 

3. Des heruhmten Ritters Don Quixotevon Mancha lustige und sinnreiche 

Geschichte. Leipzig, 1734. 2 vols. 8vo. Anonymous. 

Second edition, Leipzig, 1753; others, Frankfort, 1763; Leipzig, 1767, 

4. Leben und Thaten des weisen Junker'’ s Don Quixote^ iibers. v. Fried- 

rich Justin Bertuch. Leipzig, 1775. 6 vols. 8vo. 

Other editions, 1780-81; Carlsruhe, 1785. 

5. Der sinnreiche Junker Don Quixote., iibers. von Dietrich Wilhelm 

Soltau. Konigsbg., 1800-1. 6 vols. 8vo. Map. 

Reprinted Leipzig, 1825; Leipzig, 1837; Stuttgart, 1876. Apparently the most popu- 
lar of the German versions, and on the whole a tolerably faithful one, though not suffi- 
ciently conservative of local color. 

6. Lehen und Thaten des scharfsinnigen edlen Don Quixote^ iibers. v. 

Ludwig Tieck. Berlin, 1810-16. 4 vols. 8vo. 

Second edition, Berlin, 1831 ; third, Berlin, 1852. A spirited translation, but the 
spirit is not quite the spirit of Cervantes, and the freedom of the rendering is sometimes 
excessive. “ Scharfsinnig ” is anything but an improvement on | “ sinnreich ” as a 
translation of “ ingenioso.” 

7. Cervantes’ Werke., iibers. v. Hieronymus Miiller. Zwickau, 1825-29. 

8. Cervantes’ sdmmtl. Romane u. Novellen., iibers von Keller und Hotter. 

Stuttgart, 1839. 12 vols. 8vo. 


9. Der sinnreiche Junker Don Quixote von der Mancha., aus dem Span- 
ischen, von Edmund Zoller. Hildburghausen, 1867. 8 vols. 8vo. 

Unquestionably a better version than any of its predecessors; far more skilful than 
Soltau’s, and incomparably more faithful to letter and spirit than Tieck’s. Zoller fol- 
lows Hartzenbusch’s text, and unhesitatingly, which I must confess is more than I have 
been able to do. 


APPENDIX IIL 


557 


10. Der sinnreicke Junker Don Qvijote von der Mancha^ iibers. v. Lud- 
wig Braunfels. Spemann. Stuttgart, 1884. 4 vols. 8vo. 

So far as a somewhat superficial acquaintance (for the work is only just now com- 
pleted) warrants an opinion, I am inclined to think that this, the result it seems of nearly 
twenty years’ study of Cervantes, is the best, as it is certainly the most scholarly, trans- 
lation or Don Quixote that has as yet appeared in G-erman. The translator is not per- 
haps invariably mindful of Cervantes’ caveat to the Morisco against adding anything, 
but his additions are never wanton, and serve to supply what literal translation cannot 
always wholly convey, lie gives a learned introduction, and an ample supply of excel- 
lent notes. He is sometimes, it may be, a little over-confident; as, for instance, in 
asserting dogmatically that Aliaga was Avellaneda, and that Cervantes knew it; but in 
the main his commentary seems to be as judicious as his translation is trustworthy. 


ITALIAN. 

1. L'lngegnoso ciUadino Don Chisciotte della Mancia^ tradotto da Lor- 

enzo Franciosini. Venice, 1622. 

Brunet says he has seen a copy dated 1621, but the dedication is dated August, 1622. 
It is a translation of the First Part only. It was reprinted with a translation of the 
Second at Venice in 1625, and at Rome in 1677, and several times since. Navarrete 
says it is too much given to paraphrase, and it certainly takes liberties, but it is on the 
whole a fairly close translation. The verse is given in the original Spanish. 

2. UIngegnoso ciUadino Don Chisciotte della Mancia. Traduzione 

novissima dall’ originale Spagnuolo. Venice, 1818-19. 8 vols. 

sm. 8vo. Plates by Francesco Novelli. 

Brunet and Graesse describe this as a new edition of Franciosini’s ; but this is an 
error. It is an independent translation, and bears no resemblance whatever to Fran- 
ciosini’s. 

3. U Inge g no so idalgo Don Chisciotte della Mancia, Tradotto da Bar- 

tolomeo Gamba. Milan, 1841. 2 vols. 8vo. 

Another edition, Naples, 1851. 

4. II Don Chisciotte della gioventii^ avventure curiosissime di Don 

Chisciotte e Sancio, Milan, 1877. 1 vol. 8vo. 

An abridgment. 


DUTCH. 

1. De Verstandige Vroomen Ridder Don Quichot de la Mancha^ over- 

geset door L. V. B. Dordrecht, 1657. 1 vol. 8vo. 

The translator was Lambert van den Bosch. Of this version several editions 
appeared, e.g. Amsterdam, 1669, 2 vols. 8vo. plates; Amsterdam, 1670, 2 vols. 8vo. plates; 
Amsterdam, 1696, 2 vols. 8vo. plates (described as third edition) ; Amsterdam, 1699, 2 
vols. 8vo. plates, fifth edition; Amsterdam, 1707, 2 vols. 8vo. plates; Amsterdam, 1732, 
with title of “ De oude en rechte D. Q. de la H. of de verstandige en vrome ridder van de 
Leeuwen,” 2 vols. 8vo. plates. 

2. De Ridder Don Quichot van Mancha. 2 vols. 8vo. Plates. Am- 

sterdam, 1819. 

An abridgment. 

3. De vernuftige Jonkheer Don Quichote van de Mancha., uit het 

Spaansch vertaald door Mr. C. L. Schuller tot Peursum. 4 vols. 

post 8vo. Haarlem, 1854-59. 

A second edition with Gustave Dora’s plates, folio. Haarlem, 1870. A third, Leiden, 
1877-79. 1 vol. 1. 8vo. Plates. 


558 


DON QUIXOTE. 


RUSSIAN. 


1. Istorya o Slavnom La-Mankhskom rytsari Don Kishot. 2 vols. 8vo. 

St. Petersburg, 1769. 

“ The History of the renowned Knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote.” A translation 
from the French, and of only a portion of the First Part. 

2. Don Kishot La Mankhsky^ sotchinenie Servanta. 1 vol. 16mo. 

Moscow, 1805. 

Translated 'from the French of Florian by Vasili Zhukofsky. Other editions in 
1815 and 1820. 

3. Don Kishot La Mankhsky^ sotchinenie Servanta. 2 vols. 8vo. 

Moscow, 1812. 

Translated from the French by N. Ossipof. 

4. Don Kihot LaMankhsky. St. Petersburg, 1831. 6 vols. 16mo. 

Translated from the French. 

5. Don Kihot Lamanchsky. St. Petersburg. 1838. 8vo. 

Translated from the Spanish by Konstantin Massalsky. Only the First Part. Other 

editions in 1840 and in 1848. 

6. Don Kihot Lamanchsky. St. Petersburg, 1860. 

Translated from the French by A. Oriech. A version intended for children. 

7. Don Kihot Lamanchsky. St. Petersburg, 1866. 2 vols. 8vo. 

Translated from the Spanish by V. Karelin. A second edition, St. Petersburg, 1873. 

8. Don Kihot dlia detei. St. Petersburg, 1867. 1 vol. 8vo. 

“ Don Quixote for Children,” edited by K. S. Lvof. 

9. Istorya snamenitago Don Kihota Lamanchskago. 1 vol. 8vo. The 

second edition. St. Petersburg, 1883. 

“The History of the celebrated Don Quixote of La Mancha,” translated under the 
supervision of M. Tchistiakof. 

10. Don Kihot Lamanchsky rytsar petchalnago ohraza irytsar Ivor. St. 
Petersburg, 1883. 1 vol. 8vo. illustrated. 

“ Don Quixote of La Mancha, Knight of the Melancholy Figure and Knight of the 
Lions.” For the use of the young people of Russia. Adapted by O. T. Schmidt. 


DANISH 


1. Den sindrige Adelsmand Don Quixote af la Mancha., Levnet og 

Bedrifter. Oversat af Charlotta. D. Biehl. 4 vols. 8vo. Copen- 
hagen, 1776-7. 

A new edition, revised by F. L. Liebenberg, was published at Copenhagen, 1805, in 
2 vols. 8vo. Plates. 

2. Den sindrige Adelsmand Don Quijote af La Mancha., Levnet og 

Bedrifter. Overs, ved F. Schaldemose. 4 vols. 8vo. Copen- 
liagen, 1829-31. 



APPENDIX in. 


559 


POLISH. 

1. Don Quixote: a translation by Francis Podowski. 6 vols. 8vo. 

Warsaw, 1786. 

From the French, apparently. 

2. Don Kiszot z Manszy przez Cervantesa. 4 vols. 8vo. Warsaw, 

1854-5. 

From the French with Tony Johannot’s llluBtrations. 

3. Zabawne przygody Don Kiszota z Manszy. Cracow, 1883. 

“The Amusing Adventures of Don Quixote of La Mancha;” arranged for Polish 
youth by J. M. Himmelblau. In the “ Bibliografia Polska” translations are mentioned 
by Klimaszewski and Wolowski; and also by Borowski and Fontana, the last two 
being still in manuscript. 


PORTUGUESE. 

0 jfigenhoso Fidalgo Dom Quixote de la Mancha. Traduzido em vulgar. 
Tipografia Rollandiana. Lisbon, 1794. 6 vols. 8vo. 

Another edition, Lisbon, 1803. Portugal was under the Spanish crown when Don 
Quixote appeared, and the popularity of the book in the original was such that there 
was but little demand for a translation until comparatively recent times. 


SWEDISH. 

1. Don Quichotte af La Mancha^ of vers, efter Florian af Carl Guslaf 
Berg. Stockholm, 1802. 1 vol. 8vo. Plates. 

Not completed. 

2. Den Tappre och Snillrike Riddare don Quichotte af Mancha^ lefverne 
ock hedrifter^ af M. de Cervantes Saavedra. 4 vols. 8vo. Plates. 
Stockholm, 1818-19. 

Translated from the Spanish by J. M. Stjernstalpe. 

3. Don Quichott af Mancha. Ofvers. af A. L. 1 vol. 8vo. Stockholm, 

1857. 

From the Spanish, by Axel Hellsten. 

4. Don Quichotte for ungdomer hearheted efter Florian. 1 vol. 8vo. 

Plafes. Stockholm, 1857. 

A version intended for young people. 

5. Don Quixote de la Mancha. For ungdomer bearbeted. 1 vol. 8vo. 

Plates. Stockholm, 1872. 

By A. Th. Paben. Also for young people. 

HUNGARIAN (mAGYAR). 

1. Don Quixote., tr. by Karady Ignacz, 1848. 1 vol. 12mo. 

2. Don Quijote., a hires manchai lovag spanyol eredeti mu Cervantestdl, 

Florian ut&n franczi&bol magyarva forditotta Horv&th Oyorgy. 
1 vol. 8vo. Kecskemet, 1850. 

From the French of Florian, by George Horvath. A second edition In 1863. 


560 


DON QUIXOTE. 


3. Az elmes nemes Don Quijote de la Mancha.^ irta Miguel de Cervantes 
Saavedra Spanyolhol forditotta s hevezeite Gy dry Vilmos. 4 vols. 
8vo. Budapest, 1873. 

From the Spanish, by William Gyory, who also arranged an edition for young 
people, published in 1875. 


GREEK. 

Aoi^ Kioor ^ TO, ireptepySrepa tuv avpf^dvruv avrov. Athens, 1860. 1 vol. 

16mo. 

An abridgment, or rather collection of the principal adventures and incidents; with 
an introduction in dialogue form on Charlemagne, Arthur, and chivalry in general. In- 
tended for young people. 


BOHEMIAN. 

1. Don Quijote de la Mancha ze ^ panilsTciho M. Cervantesa. Od J. B. 

Pichla. Prague, 1866. 1 vol. 8vo. 

The first part only; translated by J. B. Pichel. 

2. Don Quixote de la Mancha. Prague, 1868. 1 vol. 8vo. 

The Second Part; translated by Dr. Karel Stefan. Besides these, there are an illus- 
trated edition and a translation from the German. 


SERVIAN. 

Pripovetka o slavnom vitezu Don Kihotu od Manche, s frantsuskoga. 
Panchevo, 1882. 1 vol. 12mo. 218 pp. 

•* The history of the renowned hero Don Quixote of the Mancha. From the 
French.” 

An abridgment of somewhat the sams sort as the Greek, and illustrated by spirited 
woodcuts. In the preface, of which Mr. A. L. Hardy kindly sent me a translation, it is 
stated that there is no complete Servian version. Two chapters were published in the 
Serbski Dnennik — a daily paper — in 1856; and a portion which was never continued 
appeared at Belgrade in 1862; but if the present volume proves acceptable, the translator 
promises to produce in time a complete Servian ” Don Quixote.” 













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